


Fic Graveyard

by winwinism



Category: Haikyuu!!, LOONA (Korea Band), NCT (Band), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29567436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism
Summary: Where my eternally-unfinished works in progress go to die.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	1. SakuAtsu (Haikyuu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sakusa and Atsumu bang after meeting at a college party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied angst, implied beginning of a friends-with-benefits relationship.
> 
> **Rating:** Explicit

Atsumu only hits on him because he’s drunk. Get enough cheap alcohol in him and he’d try to fuck anyone who was pretty, or who looked at him the right way. Kiyoomi’s pretty sure he’s scowling, but Atsumu doesn’t seem to care, so it must be the former. Whatever. Kiyoomi tells himself he’s not flattered, and he finishes his drink as Atsumu leans in and tells him, “I love your eyes--they’re all, like, dark and gray and mysterious. And the little moles. So cute.” Atsumu giggles. His breath smells like beer, and he reeks of the kind of college dudebro cologne Kiyoomi hates. 

Kiyoomi only goes with him because he’s drunk. And because he’s tired and lonely, and it’s been a long week, and he’s sad and horny and hasn’t fucked anyone--hasn’t _been fucked_ \--in too damn long. And because Motoya abandoned him for a pretty girl from engineering, and there isn’t anyone else at this party he knows or particularly wants to hang out with, including Atsumu, but god, at least Atsumu’s hot. And interested. That’s not nothing. 

Luckily, neither of them are too drunk to fuck. 

Atsumu gets his teeth on him not five seconds after the door bangs shut behind them, lock sliding into place with a loud _click_ as Kiyoomi’s shoulder blades slam into the hard wood. “Jesus Christ,” Kiyoomi mutters, head spinning as Atsumu pins his wrists next to his head and goes for his clavicle, incisors bared. “No marks, are you insane?”

Atsumu huffs out a sigh and smooches up Kiyoomi’s neck, locking eyes with him once he’s finished. “Are you? Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” 

“Like you want me to eat you alive.” 

Petulant, lower lip stuck out, Kiyoomi wrenches his forearms forward, but Atsumu hardens his grip and presses them back against the door, the strength behind it evident. His fingers feel hot as brands on the inside of Kiyoomi’s wrists, digging into his fluttering pulse. The moon and the street lamps outside shine through the thin curtains on the far wall, haloing Atsumu’s silhouette, and Kiyoomi can just barely make out the gleam in his eye, the hard set to his jaw. Atsumu cocks his head. 

“Is that how you wanna do this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You acting like you don’t want it.” 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Atsumu clicks his tongue. “Or not.” He goes in for a kiss, and Kiyoomi welcomes it, sighing. His breath hitches when Atsumu brings their hips together. Kiyoomi’s embarrassed to have been half-hard for a while now--drunk or not, Atsumu’s a good flirt. He knows how to make a guy feel, Kiyoomi doesn’t know, _sexy_. Wanted. 

Now, being kissed hungrily in a dingy college dorm, Kiyoomi shivers with pleasure. Atsumu lets Kiyoomi’s wrists slip free, and Kiyoomi goes without hesitation for the hem of his sweater, sliding his fingers roughly up Atsumu’s abdomen and groaning against Atsumu’s lips. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen on Instagram, but feeling each warm muscle under his fingers is something else. He cups his palms to the swell of each pec, tenting Atsumu’s sweater with his arms, and rubs his thumbs over Atsumu’s peaked nipples as Atsumu licks over his teeth. Kiyoomi swallows Atsumu’s answering moan and feels his groin tighten. 

Atsumu fingers curl around his wrists, gently prying them away and out from under his shirt. He lifts one to his lips and kisses the sensitive skin there slow and open-mouthed, then molds Kiyoomi’s palm to his cheek, leaning into it as if Kiyoomi had placed it there himself. Even in the dim, Atsumu’s smirk makes Kiyoomi’s blood boil. 

Atsumu preps him on his hands and knees. He doesn’t touch Kiyoomi’s cock once--doesn’t even acknowledge it exists. 

“Got a pretty little ass,” he remarks, two lubed-up fingers thrusting in and out, faster and more brutally than Kiyoomi would ever do to himself. “Wonder how you’d taste.”

“Don’t you dare,” Kiyoomi says, suppressing a shiver of disgust. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead into a stranger’s dirty, germed-up pillow. Suddenly, he’s remembering why he hardly ever does this. It’s not enough to sober him up. 

Atsumu finds his prostate, and Kiyoomi’s reaction elicits from Atsumu a pleased “Oh!” and a low chuckle that makes Kiyoomi’s cock drip. Then he hits it again, _hard_ , and lets the pace of his thrusts subside as he massages his fingers over the swollen nub, caressing every nerve ending in Kiyoomi’s body. Kiyoomi chokes on a moan and squirms, struggling to hold himself still, a breath away from revoking his consent--then Atsumu’s fingers withdraw, leaving him cold. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers. There’s a rustle of movement behind him, and Kiyoomi twists in time to catch Atsumu unbuckling his pants, then quickly but ungracefully peeling himself out of them. He meets Kiyoomi’s eyes with a quirk to his lips. 

“What’s that?”

“Fuck me,” Kiyoomi says, louder. 

“That’s the plan.” Freeing himself from his boxers--clingy, a dark, navy blue--Atsumu uncaps the lube and pours it over his dick, letting it drip all over the sheets. Kiyoomi’s mouth falls open as Atsumu wets his cock with it. His moan of pleasure must be an exaggeration, with the way his head tips back and his lips part; and Kiyoomi swears he’s flexing, showing off like the narcissist that he is. Kiyoomi rakes his eyes over him and squeezes his thighs together. He can’t remember ever being this turned on, not once. A thought nags at the back of his mind.

“Condom?” Atsumu glances down at him, the haughty tilt of his chin pure condescension. Kiyoomi’s dick throbs. 

“You want one?” Kiyoomi stares at the hard length in Atsumu’s fist--not too long, but gorgeously curved and _thick_ , enough that Kiyoomi knows just looking that he’ll leave him sore. “I don’t usually do this,” Atsumu adds, and Kiyoomi swears it’s a lie--another sweet nothing meant to make him feel special, get him hot enough to spread his legs. He swallows, mouth dry, and shakes his head. “Fuck, you’re sweet.”

The moment Atsumu rubs the tip over Kiyoomi’s hole, he knows two fingers weren’t enough. But arousal chokes him and tenses his gut and sees his thighs tremble with want. Desperation makes him into a whore. Kiyoomi spreads his knees wider and shoves his hips back, dropping his head in defeat as the words shake out of him: “C’mon, fuck me with your fat, stupid cock.”

Atsumu’s burst of laughter must be sincere. “Say less,” he says, and he clasps the nape of Kiyoomi’s neck as he splits him open, squeezes as he bottoms out in one swift thrust. Kiyoomi yelps. There’s no way the neighbors don’t hear. He cries out again, muscles locked in terror, as pleasure and pain surge over him and congeal, one indistinguishable from the other. 

Atsumu fills him up to his throat and leaves him gasping for air. He fucks him heedlessly, with the sole purpose of chasing his own pleasure, using him like he might any other warm hole, railing Kiyoomi’s prostate and pressing bruises into his hips like it’s nothing. Like Kiyoomi’s nothing. His short, brutish grunts echo the slap of skin on skin, filling the darkened room, and continue unceasing through Kiyoomi’s ragged gasp as he cums untouched all over Atsumu’s sheets, stars bursting behind his eyelids. 

“Fuck,” Atsumu hisses, and Kiyoomi prays that he’ll remember how Atsumu’s voice curls around the syllable; “you just got really tight.” He pulls out--letting Kiyoomi, boneless in the wake of his orgasm, slump onto the bed and into the puddle of his own release--and cums on Kiyoomi’s ass a few moments later. The hot, sticky fluid trickles down his crack, joining the lube smeared there and tickling his sore, oversensitive rim. Trapped between his torso and the bed, Kiyoomi’s cock twitches. He feels like he just came twice. 

Atsumu’s horrible. The most inconsiderate partner Kiyoomi has had the misfortune to bed. He flops down on the bed beside Kiyoomi’s prone body, tucking one hand behind his head, and whistles. 

“Damn, that was good.” Kiyoomi senses rather than sees Atsumu look at him, dragging his eyes over Kiyoomi’s back, his ass bathed in moonlight and white cum. A shiver rakes through him. “You alright?”

Kiyoomi lies with a vaguely affirmative mutter. His heart hammers in his chest as he struggles into his forearms, cringing at the feeling of his own release against his belly. 

“Did you cum?”

“What do you think?” Kiyoomi snaps, levelling at him a forced, toothless glare. Atsumu’s roaming eyes on his soft cock make him burn. He feels hollowed-out, dirty. Humiliated. 

“Nice,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi’s throat itches with a wordless retort, his mind grasping at something, _anything_ to reclaim his dignity. “Hey,” Atsumu adds a moment later, reaching for Kiyoomi’s shoulder. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

“What? Okay.” His hand flinches away, and Kiyoomi hates the little pout that curves the corners of his lips--though it disappears a moment later, turning into a half-smile that edges on a smirk. “What’s your name?”

The words shock his skin like a blast of frigid air. Jaw rigid, he sits upright and slips off the bed, turning his back on Atsumu’s honey-brown, doe-eyed stare. 

“Hey,” Atsumu says again as Kiyoomi starts picking up his clothes. He spies a tissue box and pulls out a few sheets, rubbing them over his stomach and ass, cheeks burning. It’ll do for now. 

“Sakusa,” Kiyoomi bites out. “Kiyoomi.” He pulls on his underwear, limbs shaking, and cringes at the sensation. He can’t believe it. He let him do _that_ , and Atsumu didn’t even know his fucking name. 

“Pretty name,” Atsumu says from the bed, and Kiyoomi rounds on him, speechless with rage. “ _Woah_.” 

Gnawing at the inside of his mouth, Kiyoomi sighs. Yanks his shirt over his head instead of speaking the words on his tongue. It’d only make him feel worse. 

“We should do this again,” Atsumu goes on, oblivious, the fucking asshole. He’s sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, cock lolling obscenely over his muscular thighs. Kiyoomi rips his eyes away and glares at his feet. “I’ll call you.”

“Don’t have my number,” Kiyoomi says without glancing up. 

Atsumu sucks his teeth. He’s such a kid. A boorish, inelegant boy, drunk on the awareness of his own charm. “True,” he admits. “I’ll still find you, though.”

Kiyoomi answers with the slam of the door. It wasn’t a question, anyway.


	2. KageHina (Haikyuu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally just the plot of God's Own Country (2017) but with KageHina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad bathroom sex with original male character. Yay!
> 
>  **Rating:** Explicit

There’s a man at the bar Tobio doesn’t recognize. Rare in this town, but rarer still is that he returns Tobio’s furtive glances with a few of his own. Nearing the bottom of his second pint, Tobio finds he’s warming to the idea of him more by the minute. Guy’s a non-threatening sort of pretty, with bangs and a soft-looking gray sweater. The pair of women he’s with--college age, also unfamiliar--don’t seem to be paying him much attention. 

Tobio slams his empty glass down with a little more force than intended and locks eyes with the stranger, revelling in the interest reflected there. He stands, loose-limbed, and cocks his head once towards the bathroom. The man licks his lips. Kageyama goes. 

The bathroom is as run-down as the rest of the bar and smells of the usual suspects. He takes a piss while he waits, and amid the relief of an empty bladder a low thrum of anticipation rushes in. Before Tobio can zipper his jeans, the door creaks open and the stranger steps through, expression wary. 

Whatever he finds in Tobio’s eyes must put him at ease, because he cracks a smile. “Started without me?” the man asks in a breathy voice, indicating Tobio’s unzippered pants. The man’s eyes linger on his bulge, and Tobio feels himself swell under the attention. 

In lieu of responding, Tobio snorts. They enter the bathroom’s sole stall wordlessly, the stranger pressing his back to the wall and facing Tobio. He tilts his chin up, eyes glittering and lips parted--and Tobio finds himself struck by a flash of annoyance that sublimates into impatience. His brow hardens; he grips the stranger by the shoulder and spins him around, pinning him with his cheek pressed into the wall. The stranger’s eyes go wide, breath wheezing out of him, but he doesn’t protest. Tobio bows his head to bite kisses along the man’s neck, his hand on the man’s shoulder shifting to cradle his throat, fingers splaying lightly across his windpipe. No resistance. The man arches into it, presses his firm, round ass against Tobio’s exposed triangle of underwear. At this, Tobio sends up a sardonic prayer of thanks for his own good luck. 

“Fuck me,” the man whispers, like he can’t help it. In the same breath, he produces a condom from a front pocket and presses it into Tobio’s hand. Tobio grunts again in thanks and holds it between his teeth as he works his jeans and briefs down over his ass, freeing his engorged cock, while the stranger does the same. The man’s ass is moon-pale and dotted with freckles, and smooth, like he shaves. Tobio half-considers asking him what the hell he’s doing around here, walking around like that. 

Instead, he presses forward, letting his erection grind up between the man’s ass cheeks, and shoves two fingers into his mouth. The stranger closes his eyes and works his tongue around them gratefully, breathing hard through his nose, until Tobio pries them free and adds some spit of his own. He works the stranger open with these, none too gentle, but he suspects correctly that the man doesn’t need gentleness. Neither of them do. The man pants through that little pink mouth, growing sweaty in Tobio’s grip, his bangs plastered over his forehead. A private erotic dream, summoned by some merciful god in the pisser of a nameless podunk shithole. Tobio grins in drunken delight and spits once more on his cock. 

The sound the man makes when Tobio fucks inside--a high-pitched _uhn_ , un-self consciously loud--wipes the grin off of his face; and for a split second, irritation returns. Tobio molds their bodies together, burying himself balls-deep, and fits a hand over the man’s mouth. He lowers his head to his ear with the intent to shush him, but all that comes out is a ragged breath, echoed in the continued nasal pants that ghost over his hand. Tobio forgets his admonition and starts to fuck him in short, deep thrusts. 

He doesn’t uncover the man’s mouth, and climaxes with the realization that he’d been more attuned to his partner’s noises, for fear of being discovered, than to his own pleasure. The stranger cums in his own hand, with a stricken O-face Tobio takes care to memorize. Tobio thinks momentarily about cumming on a face like that, regretting that he won’t have a chance to do it. 

As he’s washing his hands, Tobio notices the stranger watching him with a lopsided smile. His hands are shaky on his belt, his breath still in the process of evening out. Tobio admits to himself the rumpled, flushed-face look is sexy--but so are a lot of things. 

“Hey,” the man says, and Tobio straightens to face him. His mole-speckled throat bobs. “Uh, thanks for that.” 

Tobio grunts a third time, and averts his eyes to yank a paper towel free of the dispenser. 

“Look, if you want my number--”

“Don’t have a phone,” Tobio lies. He discards the paper towel and levels the man with a bland look. To pacify him, he adds, “You’re a nice fuck. Congrats.”

The stranger’s look of shock is unmistakable. Tobio cringes internally; he shouldn’t bother with compliments. His never go over well. “I--excuse me,” the man sputters, his volume climbing. Tobio pauses with his hand on the doorknob and glances back over his shoulder.

“Word of advice,” he says; “try not to be so loud.” 

Tobio doesn’t slam the door behind him, but comes dangerously close. He leaves a wad of bills next to his emptied beer glass and walks out the door with the jangle of its old bell, the cool night air whisking the last of a pleasant afterglow from his person. 

Tobio awakens to the familiar dull throb of a headache and beams of sunlight filtering through his curtains. He pries his eyes open, wiping away the crusts, and remains still for a moment as the memories of last night slowly return--then bolts upright with a start. Somehow, he’s slept well past sunrise, leaving him--he checks his bedside clock--only a couple hours for farmwork before the auction. 

“Shit.” Tobio throws off his bedsheets and scrambles out of bed to change, calculating which chores he ought to prioritize before he has to head into town. Milking comes first, of course, then changing the animal feeds, sweeping the barn. Repairing the roof and fencing will have to wait yet another day. He hisses another curse under his breath and stumbles out his room.

His mother, Aina, scrubs an egg-crusted frying pan in the kitchen sink, the remnants of a breakfast he’d missed stacked on the counter. “Morning,” she says briskly as Tobio laces up his boots. “Another late night?”

“Morning.” He doesn’t acknowledge her question. Aina’s lips thin out, but she doesn’t press. She knows the answer, anyway. 

Tobio heads out the front door ungracefully, the onslaught of direct sunlight aggravating his headache. He shields his eyes as he makes his way down the gravel and packed-dirt path to the barn, where the odors of dung, straw, and animal sweat arise. 

The work is mostly muscle memory, but the monotony and the sluggishness of his hungover body make him grow weary fast. He throws in the towel early, and gulps down a candy bar as he hooks the trailer up to his granddad’s rusted old truck, fixing it up with straw for the heifer they’ve decided to sell off. She moos her discontent, but trots into place without putting up much of a fight. Tobio leaves for the auction half an hour earlier than planned and drives slow, wary of bumps and exposed rocks in the road that might jostle his passenger, looking out on the rolling, gray-green swathes of farmland and uncultivated hills that he passes along the way. 

Tobio returns from the auction late afternoon, the check from the sale cashed, with a portion already spent on a greasy spoon. The combination of boredom and a heavy meal weighs down Tobio’s limbs; his skin feels tacky, dusted with grime and animal scents. All he wants is a bath and a cold can of beer--though admittedly, he doesn’t often want anything else. 

When he pulls up to the farmhouse, he spies his granddad, Kazuyo, pulling out weeds in the garden, his cane dug into the soil beside his stooped figure. Tobio frowns, but doesn’t call out to stop him. 

“How’d it go?” Aina asks as he’s splashing his face in the kitchen sink. She’s ironing a load of Kazuyo’s shirts in the next room, an opera record playing quietly in the background. 

“Fine,” Tobio says, telling her the sale price. She hums as if she hadn’t expected anything better.

“The farmhand called,” she goes on. “Says his bus is coming in at eight.” 

“The farmhand?” Tobio remembers as soon as he says it, and deflates at having another errand to run. “Where?”

“You know, bus stop by Town Hall.”

Tobio scowls, but nods. Down the hall, the door to his sister’s old bedroom stands cracked open, evidence of Aina refreshing it with clean bedsheets and other supplies for their incoming guest. Tobio loathes the idea of a stranger sleeping in that room, even if only for a couple weeks, but it’s the most courteous option. The farmhand probably wouldn’t be fond of sleeping among the spiders in the attic--or worse, as Tobio might’ve suggested, in the barn. 

“What’s his name, again?” Tobio asks. 

“Shouyou,” Aina says. She shoots him a look before she returns to her work. “You be nice, now.” 

“Yes, Ma.” 

Tobio leaves for the bus stop a quarter past eight, figuring that the bus would run late anyway. It’s a clear, chilly evening, a sliver of moon strung up among the stars. Tobio doesn’t spare a thought for what the farmhand might be like until he pulls up to the curb and sees him silhouetted by a streetlamp. Tobio blinks. A duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he cuts a small figure, and has a foreign-looking shock of orange hair. As he approaches, Tobio rolls down the window to speak to him. 

“Hinata Shouyou,” the farmhand introduces himself in a boyish voice. Tobio frowns, but jerks his head towards the passenger side of the truck and reaches over to unlock the door. 

“Kageyama Tobio,” he says. “Get in.” 

Tobio resists the urge to stare as Shouyou climbs into the truck. Even seated, he’s obviously short. His skin is paler than Tobio’s and densely freckled across the bridge of his nose. His eyebrows are orange. 

“Where are you from?” Tobio blurts. He grimaces, and returns his eyes to the road as he peels away from the curb.

“Japan,” Shouyou replies brightly. “But I move around a lot.” 

“Huh,” Tobio says, and that’s the end of that. 

Shouyou’s manner is similarly bright as he introduces himself to Aina and Kazuyo. He bows profusely, and only takes off his shoes and sets down his duffel after being expressly invited. Aina offers a late dinner, but he insists he ate on the bus, and that really, he’d rather get his rest after a long day of travel. Kazuyo smiles at him with a sincere warmth Tobio hasn’t seen in months. 

Tobio lets him bathe first, popping open a can of beer to accompany his quickly developing resentment. Only a couple weeks, he reminds himself. Then he’ll have his routine back. The slow monotony of farmwork, the intermittent orders from Kazuyo--and he’ll be alone, able to carry it all out however he wishes. 


	3. YuWin (NCT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuta, trans guy and certified slut, offers to give Sicheng pussy-eating lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no pussy-eating in the part of the fic I am willing to share.
> 
>  **Rating:** Teen

“Never have I ever…ugh. I’m so worldly that I can’t think of anything.”

They sit in a wobbly circle amid a sea of empty hamburger wrappers and discarded napkins, greasy fingers clutching the bottlenecks of cheap beers. They’re all half-drunk already, some more than others, but this’ll do the trick. 

Ten chews their lip as they consider, then seize on something with a snap of their fingers. “Ah! I’ve never had mint chocolate.” 

A collective _tch_ goes around the circle as nearly everyone present tips their head back for a drink. 

“What the hell?” Hendery protests after taking his share. “How’s that possible?”

“Pretty easily,” Ten says. 

“Worldly, my ass,” Yuta says. “We’re going to BR tomorrow and changing that.” 

“Don’t have to,” says Kun. “I’ve got some in my fridge.” 

“Oh, fuck you, you told me we were out,” Dejun says. “You hid it behind the popsicles again, didn’t you?”

“It’s for your own good. You’re the one who said you needed to quit.” 

“Quit ice cream? You’ve got to stop torturing yourself, Dejun--not trying to lose weight, I hope.”

“Lactose intolerance,” Dejun tells Hendery glumly. Kun makes a noise of assent.

“It’s for my good, too,” he says, which needs no elaboration.

It’s Yangyang’s turn next, and something about the gleam in his eyes tells Sicheng that his offering won’t be nearly as innocent. He drums his fingers along the bottle and scans his friends with a growing smirk. 

“Never have I ever…” He draws it out, though he’s clearly got something in mind. _Just get on with it_ , Sicheng thinks. “Had sex in a public place.”

Sicheng snorts. Across the circle, Yuta sighs with mock-weariness and drinks. All eyes go to him, and then to Lucas, who joins him in drinking after a moment of consideration. 

“You, too?” Hendery demands of his roommate. Lucas’s nose wrinkles. 

“Does a bathroom during a party count?”

“What? Of course it doesn’t. Erase that tally, you fuck. Unless you want to lose. I don’t care.” 

Though he’s already taken his drink penalty, Lucas rubs out the tally mark on the scrap paper in front of him. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t,” Yangyang says, sagging down onto his elbows and raising his eyebrows at Ten. Ten raises theirs right back. 

“Wanna change that?” they say. Yangyang bites his lip and averts eye contact. All talk, no walk, that kid. He’s been eyeing the hem of Ten’s crop top all evening. The whole semester, actually. 

At Yangyang’s other side, Doyoung clears his throat. “My turn now, isn’t it?”

“Seems so,” Yuta says. “Don’t make it dull.” 

“Sex stuff, then?”

“Dude, you know your audience.”

Doyoung narrows his eyes, fiddling with his stubby pencil between two fingers. “Oh, I think I do.” 

He peers at the tallies lined up in front of his friends’ folded legs and socked feet, calculating who is most vulnerable at this early point in the game. There’s nothing at stake, of course. Just pride. Some kind of moderate hazing activity for later. It’s still up in the air. 

“Hmm.” Doyoung taps the pencil against his chin. Decides. “Never have I ever performed cunnilingus.” 

Yuta laughs out loud. 

“What?” Hendery exclaims, like he has almost every turn. “Wait, nevermind. You’ve got to be a virgin. Why not just say, had sex?”

“I’ve had sex,” Doyoung objects. “Just haven’t eaten pussy.” 

“Please don’t use that word,” Ten says, laughing, as every other member of the circle knocks back a drink and draws a tally. Rather, all except one.

“Why?” 

“Dunno. You saying it sounds...wrong, somehow.”

“What word should I use, then? Vagina? Vulva? Pudendum? Fanny? Something else?”

“A pudu-what? No,” Ten says, and in his corner of the circle, Sicheng hesitates. 

He holds the amber brim to his lips, but he doesn’t drink. It’s just a game--he could lie, if he were that invested. Not like anyone could fact-check either way. But something holds him back. 

“What’s wrong, bro?” Lucas says, nudging him with an elbow and a look of interest. “Gonna drink?”

“I’m…” Eight pairs of eyes turn to him, and he ends up taking a sip anyway with the thought that it would satisfy them. He gulps it down, and says, “Nevermind. It’s stupid.” 

Sicheng mumbles it, thinking he wouldn’t be heard, but Lucas’s ears are sharp. “What’s stupid?” 

He swallows. “Dunno. Um.” His eyes flick around the circle, and he thinks belatedly that he’s likely the only one taking this game so seriously. It wouldn’t be a first. He’s like that. Always overthinking. Maybe it’s the beer, though, or the way his muscles are relaxed and heavy after an evening of greasy consumables and shooting the shit, and the way being with this particular circle of friends makes him more willing to open up than he’s ever been. He says it anyway. “Does it count if they never actually...came? Got off. Whatever.”

Silence. Save for Hendery’s indie hip hop playlist, dribbling from a Bluetooth speaker somewhere outside the circle, and the whir of an upright fan. To Sicheng’s great relief, they do not entirely burst into laughter. 

Yuta, however, does. 

“Dude, what?” He slaps his denim-clad thigh and outright cackles. “What’re you talking about? You mean it doesn’t _count_ if they didn’t _nut?_ ”

“I mean--” Sicheng feels his cheeks growing red. He sees Ten’s lips starting to curve, though he doubts they do so out of malice. Doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. “Isn’t that…” His voice drops to a cowed whisper. “Kind of...the point?”

Yuta snorts. “Typical. No, that’s not always _the point_ of eating vag, though it does help--and for the purposes of the game,” he says, casting a glance at Doyoung, “I’m guessing any kind of mouth-to-vulva action counts. Successful or not.”

“What he said,” Doyoung says, toasting his beer. Sicheng briefly smacks a hand across his eyes in embarrassment. 

“Then, yes,” he grumbles. “I have.” 

The memories which this line of inquiry invoke make him cringe. Physically. Enough that Lucas notices, as does Hendery, who is somewhat less polite about these things. 

“Not successful, though?” Hendery wonders. 

“Shut up,” Sicheng says. He pulls his knees up and braces a forearm across them, very maturely pressing his forehead into it. “Yuta, it’s your turn.”

“I know,” Yuta says. “But this is fascinating. I never knew you had such a hangup.”

“Why would you? It’s not your business.”

“Wow, Cheng. I thought we were bros.” For a reason Sicheng can’t decipher, Ten laughs. 

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Lucas says, patting Sicheng gingerly on the back. “Takes some getting used to.” 

Sicheng winces. Somehow, he doubts Lucas has ever had any such hangups as his own. Not that Sicheng has any material evidence. Lucas just fits the part. Has the sexual reputation to go with it. “Guess so.”

“Alright--give us something, mountain man,” Ten says, drawing the circle’s attention away from Sicheng’s sexual inadequacies. They nod towards Yuta with a sliver of a smirk. “Top that.” 

“I think I will.” He swipes a tongue over his top lip absently, then shoots a playful, private wink at Sicheng. 

The moon hangs high and opalesque in the night sky when Sicheng stumbles out of the dorm, Yuta on his heels, Lucas and Yangyang engrossed in conversation a few paces behind. He pauses, taking in an exultant lungful of cool night air. 

An arm slung over his shoulders startles him back into motion. “Doing okay?” Yuta asks, 

“Think I overdid it,” Sicheng mumbles. The feel of bare skin against his nape sizzles through his warmed-over haze, tugging at his awareness. 

“Figured. You were looking pretty zonked out there, by the end.” Sicheng shoots him a sidelong glance, and Yuta responds with a grin. In the moonlight, his teeth are disconcertingly white. “Think you can walk in a straight line?” 

“Guess I’ll find out.” 

Yuta hums his consolation. He doesn’t withdraw his arm, and Sicheng doesn’t bother shrugging him off--even as he’s aware, dimly, that he would’ve if he were sober. But he’s not, so he doesn’t. 

Yuta’s always been touchy. With everyone, as any casual acquaintance of his would observe, but particularly with Sicheng. “It’s because you’re a brat,” Ten once told him. “He likes that. He calls you cute, cuddly, all that stuff--right?”

“Sometimes,” Sicheng admitted, with great reluctance.

“Don’t buy it. Oh, you’re cute, but that’s him covering his ass.”

Sicheng didn’t know what to make of that. Still doesn’t. Maybe it’s true, and they’ve developed a kind of symbiosis where Yuta gets his thing on and Sicheng gets his--the need for a tactile friendship that doesn’t require he sacrifice his pride. 

Now, with the excuse of alcohol, he gives up a little slack. Lets Yuta press up alongside him, thumbing his neck, ostensibly guiding him though he’s more of a distraction than anything. 

Behind them, Lucas and Yangyang peel off towards their own dorm building, one mostly inhabited by sophomores. They exchange waves and shouted goodnights, and the sounds of the night grow louder in the pair’s absence. Crickets, distant cars, disembodied laughter from elsewhere on campus. 

Apropos of nothing, Yuta breaks the silence: “Y’know, Sicheng, you can always come to me for advice. About stuff. If you want.”

“Sure,” Sicheng mumbles, sleepy-minded. “What kind of stuff?”

“Like, y’know. Sex stuff.”

The words sink in as if through molasses. He blinks, brow knitting, barely registering the way Yuta’s arm slips free. “What?” 

Yuta laughs, unburdened, only adding to Sicheng’s bluster. “You were looking stressed about the whole cunilingus business.”

“Could say that,” Sicheng concedes bitterly. 

“Hey, I get it. Not everyone’s a natural at everything.”

Sicheng glances at Yuta, mildly aghast. For Yuta, who doesn’t have an awkward bone in his body, to say that? “Really?” 

“Really. Like, if you want some tips--”

“Uh, maybe--”

“--a practical demonstration, whatever works.” 

Again, Sicheng freezes, mind stumbling to a halt. Yuta notices after a moment and turns back to him with, absurdly, a look of mild concern. “You’re...joking.”

Yuta’s lips curve into a sly grin. “Yeah, sure. I mean, unless…?” He lets the question trail off unasked, shrugging. 

“Like…” Sicheng licks his lips. Were he not drunk, he probably wouldn’t have the guts to confirm. Maybe he’d know better, and wouldn’t have to. “You’d...let me watch?”

Yuta’s grin slips off as he stares back. Sicheng blinks. Why does he look baffled? Then it returns, and Yuta barks out a laugh. 

“That’s not what I was referring to, but hell yeah, I’d let you.” He loops back to bump elbows, this time not smirking at the way Sicheng wobbles back into motion. 

He shouldn’t ask. “What were you referring to?” 

“Practicing on _me_. Duh.” 

The tip of Sicheng’s shoe lodges into a crack in the sidewalk, and with his momentum offset by more than one force, he trips, smacking ungracefully into the concrete. 

Sicheng tips his head back into the spray of cold shower water, eyes shut as he lathers his hair with soap. His head pounds with the double-whammy of a hangover and the mild head trauma of his spill the night previous. Early morning, to be technical about it. His nose is swollen and bruised, the insides caked with blood, his upper lip split, and there’s a prominent lump forming above his left brow, but nothing’s broken. The worst part was--is--the embarrassment. 

“Christ, you look beat up,” Yuta said when Sicheng emerged from his bedroom. “Beat up by the _ground_. Hah.”

“Go ahead, laugh it up,” Sicheng grumbled back, words slurred by his swollen lip. Not that Yuta has ever needed his permission. 

Strangely, he found himself blushing at the sight of Yuta sprawled along their ratty secondhand couch, his only clothing a pair of boxers and the laptop resting on his thighs. Not like Sicheng’s a stranger to athletic bodies in various states of undress--as a competitive dancer, it was downright normal. Certainly Yuta is normal to him. He averted his eyes nonetheless, half-nervous that Yuta would be able to see right through them. 

He’s not going to make this weird. Yuta didn’t think it--his _offer_ \--was weird, or he wouldn’t have made it. His heartbeat quickens just thinking about it, throat tightening on some feeling that he can’t name. 

His fingers shook minutely as he poured his cereal, back prickling with the weight of Yuta’s attention. Yet when he stilled and glanced over his shoulder, Yuta’s eyes were glued to his laptop. 

_Great_ , he thought, slamming the box on the countertop. Is he a freshman again, so unwillingly intimidated by the cool, handsome Yuta that he can’t let down his guard around him for a second, maintaining a hyper-awareness of the way they share every space?

Sicheng wipes away the suds pouring down his face, feeling the heat that’s welled up in his cheeks. 

He knows Yuta isn’t like him. With sex, that is. Seems to him like Yuta lands a new lay every week--always casual, no strings. “No time to be tied down,” Yuta’s told him. It suits him, though. Even if he didn’t keep the schedule of a demigod on adderall, Yuta lives and breathes free love, his heart open to anyone who might ask for it. 

Meanwhile, Sicheng spares a thought for his last lay--how long has it been, already--before dismissing it, not wanting to dredge up the attendant baggage. He doesn’t do casual. He’s everything Yuta hates in a relationship: committed to monogamy, easily attached, desperate for affection, love, even as he’s afraid of it. He’s studied his own flaws in detail the past few years. And he and Yuta, they may as well be a study in opposites. 

Grimacing, Sicheng turns the knob to the coldest it’ll go and lets his eyes close. He won’t mention it. And if Yuta mentions it, he’ll politely shut him down. How hard can that be?


	4. YuWin (NCT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bakeneko Yuta worms his way into Sicheng's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** General

Lost in thought, Sicheng exits the hospital to a rush of cool air and a spray of icy droplets pattering his face. He looks up; the sky’s dark, stormclouds knotted overhead. “ _Dammit_.” He didn’t bring an umbrella. Didn’t even think to check the weather. 

But it’s only a fifteen minute walk, he reasons, not enough to justify a dip into the subway or a cab. He grits his teeth and pulls his sleeves tight against his arms, wishing that at least his jacket had a hood. 

Rain falls in a steady pelt as he walks. Few passerby share the sidewalk with him, and they all have umbrellas. It’d been blue skies when he checked in, or had it? Visiting Grandma always pulls him inward, and he always loses track of time at her bedside. He might not have noticed either way. 

A shiver courses down his spine at the sound of a distant thunderclap. A dark shape jumps in his periphery; his eyes dart to it reflexively, then once more with interest. Sicheng blinks. A black cat regards him with slitted amber eyes, fur dripping and coal-black save for a collar of white. The cat’s tail, tipped with white like each paw, ripples like seaweed rocked by gentle waves. He glances around the surrounding block, finding it empty. The cat watches still. 

Sicheng gives a curt nod and walks onward, jogging the next crosswalk and feeling the wet squish of his soles. The dark shape follows. 

He eyes the cat from his peripheral vision and notes that it doesn’t have a collar. He can’t tell if it’s a mangy stray or just waterlogged, but his gut says the latter--there’s a certain refinement to its gait, a sense of having been cared for. Sicheng casts the thought aside and increases his pace, hissing at the chill. 

At the door to his building, the cat peels away from the edge of the sidewalk and trots up to Sicheng. It circles around him, tail flicking, then pauses at his feet. Sicheng looks down at the creature, struck by indecision. 

Thunder crashes overhead, washing the dimly-lit street with lightning for a split second, and the rain intensifies. Sicheng’s heart thuds. He glances around him nervously, then--before he can second-guess himself--he unbuttons and shrugs off his jacket, kneeling to gather the cat in his arms. He bites the inside of his cheek, keeping his gaze level as rain soaks through his shirt. The cat hesitates with one paw aloft for only a moment, and steps into his arms in the next, allowing itself to be swaddled, the loose flaps tucked under and pulled tight so that only its face peeks out. Sicheng pulls the cat against his chest. It shivers. Sicheng’s heart twinges in sympathy. He’ll put up a lost pet notice, he decides, and pushes through the revolving door into the lobby’s dry warmth. 

Sicheng is a little nervous around the cat at first. He googles feverishly, uncertain of every move--and a little paranoid that he might get scratched, or that those sharp fangs would come down around his hand whenever he strokes its fur. A few days of this, and he remembers being bit by a dog when he was seven. Back in Beijing. It was his cousin’s dog, and he’d cried and cried and refused to leave his room for days, the pain in his calf overshadowed by the fear that it or some other dog would attack him again. But the cat is so docile that he almost feels sorry for holding this small trauma against it. He realizes he’s never interacted with a cat before, not for an extended period of time, certainly never held one before that rainy day. Are all cats like this, or is he lucky? 

The few lost pet notices he posts go unanswered. On Facebook, he gets a comment. _Cute cat!_ _He’s not mine, but I’d take him off your hands if no one responds_. A few like this, actually. Sicheng writes back, agreeing that the cat _is_ cute, but that he’d better hold onto it in case the owner ever materializes. It’s _got_ to have an owner--its fur is so soft and neatly-trimmed, the white patches as pure as freshly-fallen snow once he’d cleaned off the splashes of dirt. Or him. Sicheng googles this, too, to confirm. 

He gets a note from his aunt, whose tragic cat allergy he could never forget. _Oh, aren’t you lucky? Take some videos before you have to give him up, I’d love share one with my cat lovers’ Facebook group!_ _Have you given him a nickname?_

One night, on his knees as he watches the cat lap at a bowl of milk, Sicheng clutches his phone and considers it. As if sensing his dilemma, the cat lifts his head and peers at him, tongue whisking up stray droplets of milk from the fur around his mouth, white-tipped tail swaying. After a moment, Sicheng sighs and drops his hands into his lap. The cat resumes drinking, and its tail contentedly whisks the air. 

He’s never liked posting on social media, anyway. The visceral, unpleasant feeling of exposure always outweighed the validation from his peers. And the cat isn’t his to share, isn’t he? 

Nor his to name. Surely, naming him would only make Sicheng attached--and then he’d have to give him up, and where would that leave him?

Two months pass, a rainy spring turning to a humid summer; and Sicheng concludes, with a note of guilt, that the cat is as good as his.

There’s a new guy at the office. 

Sicheng can see him in his periphery: his shaggy head of hair, his easy posture and rolled-up sleeves, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his slacks. He’s tall, leanly-built judging by the way his pale blue shirt clings to the contours of his back; and Sicheng knows without seeing his face that he is very attractive. 

Sicheng fixes his eyes on his computer screen, grip tightening on his mouse. Said new guy has been chatting with their supervisor, Suh Youngho, for--Sicheng verifies the time--the last fifteen minutes, loudly enough that Sicheng can’t help but listen to every word. 

“Glad to hear it, Nakamoto,” Youngho’s saying, sounding more jovial than Sicheng has ever heard him. “Man. I should let you go. You’re probably itching to get started, don’t need me yapping at you all morning.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I’ve got a lot to learn. It’s my first real job, after all.”

Sicheng shoots them a sidelong glance, and finds the new guy has turned, his profile now in view. Strong jaw, an easy curve to his lips. He runs one hand through his hair as Sicheng watches, leaving it even more unkempt than before. Sicheng can’t immediately guess how old he is. He could be fresh out of university or thirty, or both. 

Hand lingering at the back of his neck, the new guy glances down the aisle of cubicles and lands on Sicheng. A muted jolt runs through him--he _is_ handsome. The new guy’s lips press into a polite, but friendly smile, and Sicheng replies with one of his own, praying that it doesn’t resemble a grimace. It probably does. Youngho takes note of the exchange and throws Sicheng a little wave. 

“That’s Dong Sicheng, by the way,” he says, and Sicheng’s stomach sinks. “Top programmer in this department.”

The new guy faces him head-on and gives a short, stiff bow. “Nakamoto Yuta. Pleasure to meet you.” Sicheng tracks his figure--narrow waist, nice thighs--in the split second before Yuta’s head lifts and meets his eyes, a lazy grin curving his lips. Sicheng swallows. 

“I’d have him mentor you to start out,” Youngho says, cutting off Sicheng’s reply, “but Dong’s got enough on his plate lately. You two are our only foreigners, you know that?”

“Ah, really?” Yuta says as Sicheng frowns to himself. A foreigner? Must be why his name sounded odd. And Sicheng--he hasn’t lived anywhere but Korea in over ten years, but he does still think of himself as one. Of course others think so, too. They’d remember every time they sound out his name. 

“Mm-hmm. Chinese and Japanese. But actually, I’m gonna hook you up with Kim Dongyoung right here, if that’s alright. You’ll be right next to each other.”

“Great,” Yuta replies, glancing at Sicheng over his shoulder--who flushes, realizing he was staring. He rounds on his monitor, jaw flexing. The spacebar blinks as Sicheng’s fingers hover over the keyboard, millimeters from pressing down, but for the life of him he can’t catch the thread of his work. Yuta’s sly, full-lipped smile fixes itself to his mind’s eye, blotting out anything else for longer than he’d care to admit.

Sicheng’s lounging along his couch when he calls his mother, a Korean drama on the TV and a toy fishing rod in his hand, flicking his wrist whenever the cat comes close to swiping the feathery lure. He can anticipate the beats of his mother’s conversation, enough that he can half-listen and still come in with a “Yes, Mama,” at the right moment. He tells her that work is the same as ever, and assures her that he’s been visiting Grandma every Sunday, as promised. Even the transition to marriage talk doesn’t phase him, for all that he always dreads it. Holding his phone with his shoulder, he grabs a fistful of puffed snacks from the family-sized bag sitting open on his hip and shoves them into his mouth. The line falls silent for a moment. 

“Are you eating now?” 

Sicheng starts, and swallows sooner than he would’ve liked. “Yes, Mama.”

“That doesn’t sound very nutritious.”

He peers at the bag. “It has...vegetables?”

“I worry about your health, Sicheng. If you had a wife to cook for you, you wouldn’t be eating like this. Your father…” She sighs. “He was just like you. My cooking spared him an early death.” 

“Ah,” Sicheng says. He pops another handful into his mouth, taking care to chew quietly. On the TV, the drama’s lead couple are having a moonlit conversation by the Han River. Sicheng’s eyes skim over the closed captions, and he misses his mother’s next words. “Mama?”

“Soon enough you’ll be thirty,” she says, and Sicheng almost spits out his food. “It’s time. I know you’ve resisted the idea, but it worked for your father and I, and your grandmother--we can’t bear to see you like this, all alone, playing with cats...”

Taking advantage of Sicheng’s distraction, the cat leaps up and seizes the fishing lure, tearing the pole from Sicheng’s grasp. He purrs happily as he drags it away. “I’m...sorry,” Sicheng says, piecing together what he’d missed. 

“Is that a yes, then? Shall I make a phone call?”

Sicheng sits up at once, letting the bag of snacks fall to the floor. The cat drops the toy and pads over to investigate the spilled snacks. “I don’t--no, Mama, you don’t have to. Not yet.” 

“I don’t? Is there someone else?”

Sicheng gulps. He’s worn enough holes into the excuse of not being ready--even if he _isn’t_ ready, and might never be. The thought of marrying someone he could never love, not like _that_ , fills him with enough despair that he wonders if facing his parents’ disappointment might be more bearable. Holding each awful image in his mind, the lie spills from his lips almost unbidden. “Yes, there is.” 

“Oh? Who? Where did you meet?”

“They’re, um, a new coworker.” He wets his lips, watching the cat finish his detached examination of his snacks and return to the toy fishing pole. _She_ , he reminds himself with a flash of anxiety. “She just started last week.” 

“A coworker? I see.” A beat of silence. “You know workplace relationships aren’t always advisable.” 

He bites his lip. “R-right, Mama. But we don’t work together directly. Different project groups, and all.” 

“Hmm. You like her?”

Sicheng’s eyes close, and Yuta’s smiling visage appears as if painted inside his lids. “Yes, Mama. I’d like to...see where it goes.”

“Is she married?”

“No,” Sicheng coughs. 

“You asked her?”

“I--well, no, but she doesn’t have a ring.” Sicheng hasn’t seen Yuta’s hands clearly enough to tell. 

“And you’ve spoken?”

“A little…”

His mother hums, contemplative, but--if Sicheng isn’t fooling himself--with the smallest note of satisfaction. “Well, do see to that, then. Don’t wait for another man to scoop her up.”

“I will--er, I won’t.” 

“I’m glad you’ve got your eye on someone. You’ve gone without a woman in your life for too long.”

“Yes, Mama.”

It’s that he hasn’t gotten laid in ages. That he doesn’t go out. Doesn’t date. That’s why he can’t get Yuta out of his head. 

The elevator dings as the doors slide open, and Sicheng steps inside, selecting his floor and turning to lean against the handrail. His eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a slow breath. 

If he went out more, Sicheng reasons, he’d meet more attractive people. He’d see that the world is filled with Yutas, all manner of hot guys he can thirst after from afar. Even guys who’d be down. Sicheng winces unconsciously at the thought. The theory of hookups and one-night stands excites him--visions of anonymous, shameless passion, attraction so instantaneous and violent that it demands consummation at once--but in practice he knows he’d hate them. Life isn’t porn. Reality would never be so perfect, certainly not for him. 

The ding sounds once more as the doors begin to close. Outside, the sound of rapid footsteps clicking across marble tiles approaches, and Sicheng’s eyes fly open as a familiar figure sidesteps briefcase-first into the elevator just in time to avoid being made a sandwich. The man glances at Sicheng, then at the floor he’d selected, then back. Yuta shoots him a small grin. 

“Morning, Dong Sicheng.” He leans against the wall opposite Sicheng, crossing his arms. The sleeves of his white button-down are already rolled up. Sicheng wonders if it isn’t unprofessional, but it seems that Yuta is charming enough to get away with it. 

“Morning,” Sicheng replies. Yuta’s grin fades, expression going solemn. They eye each other for an odd moment before Yuta averts his gaze, leaving Sicheng’s heartbeat quickened. 

Sicheng eyes fall to his feet, but dart back up at Yuta’s figure as he remembers his curiosity. Yuta’s knuckles are bare. And--Sicheng really shouldn’t be staring at his chest, but he can’t help noticing--his tie is knotted rather messily. Though it is his first so-called _real job_. Sicheng can sympathize, with how his own ties looked as a newly-minted professional. 

The elevator lurches to a halt, the doors slide open, and the two of them exit, Yuta gesturing with a sweep of his hand for Sicheng to walk out first. It’s strange, the apparently mutual acknowledgement that Sicheng would’ve followed Yuta out otherwise. They exchange a glance and a polite nod; and upon passing through their department’s glass doors, they remain whisked apart for the rest of the day. 

They don’t speak, that is. Sicheng tries to focus on his work--he _does_ have a full plate, as Youngho said--but person-watches incessantly, unable to anticipate the urges to look and equally unable to suppress them. He notes the way Yuta leans over Doyoung’s desk, brow furrowed and lips pursed at whatever’s being explained to him, his posture boyishly relaxed. Doyoung’s shoulders shake whenever he’s fighting back a laugh, and since pairing up with Yuta he’s done it often. But Yuta speaks quietly, now, so Sicheng can’t hear what might’ve been so funny. 

They seem to be getting along well, he and Doyoung. They grab lunch at the cafeteria while Sicheng eats vending machine foodstuffs at his desk, seizing the lull in the office’s ambient noise level to pound out some code. It’s one thing he can’t do on autopilot while his mind is elsewhere. His train of thought is cut short when Yuta returns, chatting loudly with a whole coterie of men from the department. It’s about the company, but still. He sounds more at ease with them than Sicheng ever has, his standoffish personality and--Sicheng suspects--his foreign-ness an insurmountable barrier in every conversation. The latter doesn’t seem to matter much for Yuta. Sicheng grits his teeth and keeps his eyes lowered. 


	5. HyeWon (LOONA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaewon asks Hyeju if she'll help her practice kissing before her date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** Teen

By the way Chaewon flounces on her bed as soon as she re-enters their dorm, Hyeju can tell something’s up. She doesn’t react right away, finishing another paragraph of the reading for Philosophy 101 to bring her to the end of the chapter, though it’s a difficult thing--Chaewon always distracts her so easily. She marks it with a thumb and looks over her shoulder as Chaewon heaves a great, dramatic sigh, splayed out on her bedspread without so much as taking off her shoes. Today, they’re a pair of pink, shiny flats with gaudy bows on each toe, perfectly matched to the rosy ruffles of her skirt. Childish, yet Hyeju can’t help finding them adorable. 

“Hey,” Hyeju says, casual. Chaewon responds without tearing her eyes from the ceiling. 

“Hi, Hyeju.” 

“Something happen?” 

“I got asked on a date.” The words come out in an unusual rush, and after, she sighs again, a shaky hitch in her breath. Hyeju blinks.

“Who was it?”

“The guy from seminar. Jaemin. Came up to me after class.” She balls up her fists and rubs them over her eyes, kicking her stockinged feet over the edge of the bed like a kid. “I told you before; I thought he was interested, but I didn’t--I didn’t know--” 

When Chaewon doesn’t go on, Hyeju ventures: “So...what’d you say?”

“Yes,” she says in a small voice. Her arms flop down at her sides, and Hyeju can see her lips quiver. “He’s...really cute. And smart, and nice. I don’t know. I think I like him. I think,” she corrects, growing bolder, “I _could_ like him.”

“Okay,” Hyeju says slowly. She feels a faint pang in her chest with each word, but she swallows the feeling, clenching her fingers around the back of her chair. “That’s...good, I guess?”

“I’ve never,” Chaewon says, quickly, before stopping short. Her throat bobs, and on her next breath she confesses: “I’ve never been on a date.” 

That gives Hyeju pause. Her brows furrow as she peers up at Chaewon: her roommate’s flaxen hair spills around her head in glossy locks, and her breast rises and falls as rapidly as if she’d come in running. Her porcelain doll-like profile is heart-stoppingly pretty--it’s stopped Hyeju’s heart a few times, that’s for sure. “Really?” 

“Don’t act so surprised.” A little of her familiar, playful whine creeps into her voice. “It’s not like no one’s ever asked me out.” 

_Obviously_ , Hyeju thinks. She’d be shocked if boys weren’t lining up for her in high school. “Then why haven’t you?”

“I just wasn’t interested, okay?” She sits up suddenly, holding onto the edge of her bed as she leans towards Hyeju, full lips curved into a pout. “I was _busy_ , I was in, like, five different clubs. Student council, too!” 

“And you’re not now?” 

“Of course I am! I just--” She shrugs and casts her gaze out the window, where the sun has begun to set over the courtyard. “I’m an _adult_ , now, so I thought I should...try.” 

A reasonable enough explanation, Hyeju supposes. But she presses, a smile creeping onto her face: “And you think Jaemin is cute.” 

Chaewon’s eyes snap back to Hyeju’s, her pout even more petulant than before. _Can’t be cuter than you_. “Yeah, so what?” 

“So? Good for you.” Hyeju smiles easily, even as her chest gives a last, traitorous throb. She turns back to her reading, clicking her pen. “Hope you have fun.” 

“Yeah…” Chaewon sounds strangely deflated, but Hyeju decides to drop the subject. She turns to the next chapter, and internally groans when she’s greeted with another string of dense sentences and jargon. Just as she’s about to dig in, Chaewon rushes out: “But I’m nervous!” 

“That’s normal, I guess,” Hyeju replies, not turning around. “Just be yourself.” 

“Ugh, that’s so cliche!” Hyeju finds herself smirking as she looks over her shoulder. Chaewon’s kicking her feet in mid-air, eyes trained on the floor. “I feel like--I’m worried that I won’t be what he’s expecting.” 

Hyeju resists the urge to roll her eyes--then does it anyway, because Chaewon isn’t looking. “Who cares what he’s expecting?” 

“Me!” She worries her lower lip between her teeth, brows screwed up with worry. Her next words are barely audible. “I’ve never even kissed anyone.” 

_Thump_. Hyeju’s poor heart trembles at the word. Dying to talk about literally anything else, anything at all, Hyeju says dismissively, “Well, you’ll learn.” 

“How?” Chaewon’s voice, already high, rises in pitch as her anxieties pour out. “What if I--what if I’m a horrible kisser, and I, I don’t know, _bite_ him or something, and he _tells_ everyone, and then _nobody_ wants to kiss me ever again? Huh? What’ll I do then?”

“Some people don’t mind biting.” She says it without thinking, more concerned with suppressing the impulse to reply, _I wouldn’t care, I’d still kiss you_. Chaewon blinks up at her with surprise. 

“Really?”

Torn between being embarrassed and amused, Hyeju goes for the latter. “You really _are_ innocent,” she says, snorting. 

“And you’re not?” 

Hyeju bites her lip, twirling her pen between her fingers. “I’ve had some experience.” Chaewon’s eyes go wide.

“Really? But you’re so--you don’t care about boys! I mean,” she adds, floundering with a blush, “you’ve never...cared about them in front of me.” 

Hyeju shrugs. It wasn’t boys she spent her high school years feeling up in empty classrooms and during late-night study sessions--but Chaewon can’t know that. 

“Wow…” Chaewon looks down at her lap, where the ruffles of her skirt bunch around her knees. “So…you must know a lot, then?”

“About what?” But as soon as Hyeju says it, she knows.

“Kissing.”

Chewing the inside of her mouth, Hyeju shrugs again. “I guess? As much as anyone, probably.” 

“Would you teach me?” 

“Would I--” Hyeju swallows. “What?”

“Like, I don’t know,” Chaewon says, flapping her hand in search of the right words, “give me some pointers?”

Hyeju is floored. Floored that Chaewon is _this_ ridiculous, and that her pulse refuses to settle down. “How would I do that?”

“I don’t know!” She’s pouting again. Hyeju can’t stand her. “I’m not the one with _experience_ , I mean, there must be _something_ \--”

“I could show you.”

The room falls silent. Chaewon’s restless feet fall still, and she stares at Hyeju with wide eyes. A beat passes, then another, too many to pass it off as a joke. But Hyeju has no choice other than to try, so she forces a smirk. 

“Kidding,” she says, and starts to turn back around.

“Wait!” Chaewon gnaws her lip, and says, “You were...being serious, right?”

 _Damn her_. This, actually, is the precipice: she could deny it, and never have this chance again. How selfish is she? “Yeah, kinda.” Hyeju’s not a saint. 

Absurdly, Chaewon brightens: her shoulders draw up, and she beams. “Then yeah, you should! I--if that’s alright!”

Hyeju should still deny her, right? Could say she’s having second thoughts. Hyeju snorts. “I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“I mean, it’s fine for... _friends_ to kiss, right? If it’s just for practice.”

Hyeju looks down, fingers tightening around the seat of her chair. “I’d feel bad about taking your first kiss.” _Bad_ is one word for it.

“You shouldn’t, it doesn’t really matter. That’s just--society, or whatever.” _Is it?_ “Unless you actually have some pointers…”

“Nah.” Hyeju lifts her head with a smile she hopes is reassuring, hoping none of her inner conflict is writ on her face. “It’s hard to explain. It’ll make more sense if we do it.”

Hyeju sits next to Chaewon on her bed. The mattress creaks as she shifts until their thighs nearly press together. Their legs dangle over the edge side by side, though Hyeju’s are longer than Chaewon’s. Hyeju’s only a few inches taller, but Chaewon’s build is so slight, her arms like toothpicks where they stick out of her blouse--which is loose and white, and thin enough that Hyeju can almost make out the outline of her bra. Not that Hyeju’s looking. 

“So…” Hyeju leans onto one arm, half-turning towards Chaewon even as her cheeks heat up at the position, the proximity, what they’re about to do. “Do you mind if I touch you?”

“Like…” Chaewon’s definitely blushing. She covers her mouth, looking up at Hyeju through long lashes in a way that almost certainly wasn’t meant to be coy, but which is anyway. “On the lips? We’re going to anyway, right?”

“No, like. People don’t _just_ touch their lips when they kiss, alright?” Hyeju rolls her eyes. “You usually end up, like, grabbing them somewhere.” It feels vulgar. Nobody should be _grabbing_ Chaewon. “Like their shoulders, or whatever.”

“Um…” Chaewon scratches her shoulder as if unconsciously, the smooth skin revealed by the wide neck of her shirt. “Where else?”

“Anywhere, really.” Then she corrects: “Kind of depends.”

“On what?”

 _Oh, god_. She doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with Chaewon. “Like, how far you wanna get?” She scrubs a hand over her face. “If you’re trying to, um, bang them or whatever.”

Chaewon gasps. “You’ve _banged_ people?”

“Don’t say it like--ugh!” Hyeju fully buries her head in her hands, laughing. “Kind of?”

“How do you _kind of_ bang someone?” Then, Chawon adds in a lowered voice: “You mean _bang_ as in _have sex_ , right?”

“ _How_ are you this innocent?”

“I was just making sure!” Chaewon giggles, sagging onto her arms, and somehow, Hyeju thinks she seems more relaxed. Maybe this won’t be so bad. “I dunno, I guess anywhere’s fine!”

Hyeju blinks, only registering it as an answer after a moment. “Oh.” _Anywhere_. That’s too much, more than her imagination can handle. Her tongue feels thick. Lips curving into a slow grin, she says, “Wow, you’re really easy, huh?”

Chaewon frowns and bats at her shoulder. “Oh, shut up. You wouldn’t do anything to make me uncomfortable, so.” She shrugs. 

Hyeju’s not so sure about that. Not if Chaewon knew everything. That she’s been crushing on her for--“Alright,” Hyeju says quietly. “Just making sure.” 

Chaewon huffs. “It’s not like I’m fragile.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not!”

“You’re, like, ninety pounds soaking wet. You have these weird, hollow bird-bones, and every time I pick you up I worry they might snap if I move you the wrong way.” As if to demonstrate, Hyeju pulls one of Chaewon’s forearms into her lap, easily touching her ring finger and thumb around its circumference. Chaewon’s breath hitches, and only at that does Hyeju remember to blush. 

“I’m a healthy weight,” Chaewon protests, but her voice is quiet, embarrassed. Hyeju blushes harder and lets her go. 


	6. WangXian (MDZS)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally just the plot of The Old Guard (2020) but with WangXian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was, uh, requested of me, but I never followed through. Cool. Contains violence and murder but it's not exactly gory. 
> 
> **Rating:** Teen

Nie Huaisang gets them the gig from a grotto in southern Italy. He sits them around his laptop, pulls up the woman’s profile picture pixel by pixel via his shitty encrypted internet connection. Next to the photo is a long scroll of credentials and achievements--covert operations, regions paired with jargon-y euphemisms that set off pings of recognition across Wei Wuxian’s vast memory. 

“This is the ex-CIA chick?” Wei Wuxian says, voice echoing against the steady drip of moisture elsewhere in the cavern. 

Nie Huaisang nods. “Wen Qing,” he confirms. “It’s been eight years since she left the agency. Been a top LOTUS operative for six.” 

_Must be older than she looks_ , Wei Wuxian thinks. “How’d she contact you again?”

“She didn’t,” he says. “Our contacts hooked us up on request.” 

“Right,” Wei Wuxian says. He glances at Lan Sizhui, who’s fixated on the LED glow of the screen, lips pursed together in concentration as if trying to imprint the woman’s face in his memory. Probably is. Wei Wuxian’s side twinges--the site of an old injury, imperfectly healed before he became an immortal--as he regards that solemn profile. They look nothing alike, but his demeanor, the way he carries himself, reminds Wei Wuxian so much of another old injury that it seems to him almost cruel. 

And this, Wei Wuxian reminds himself, will be Lan Sizhui’s first mission. A real one, with lives at stake that aren’t their own. He only turned two short months ago and has scarcely settled into his new invulnerability. As least they didn’t have to train him with a gun. 

They meet Wen Qing in an open-air market in Morocco. Wei Wuxian meets her, anyway. She wears oversized sunglasses and a headscarf that covers the lower half of her face, but she tugs it down to reveal lips painted blood red as Wei Wuxian sits down with her, sure to angle himself so that he doesn’t block the others’ lines of sight from a nearby rooftop. Eyes fixed on him behind the sunglasses, she tosses a folded newspaper in Arabic across the table. He glances at it, his half-mastery of the language giving him a rough impression of the day’s headlines, before returning Wen Qing’s stare. The sun beats down on his neck, outside the protection of their little paper umbrella, sweat dampening his collar. Good for him that he no longer has the ability to burn or tan, or maybe not. 

“I heard of what you did in the Mediterranean two summers ago,” Wen Qing says in English. “With the refugees. It’s good work you’re doing. Important work.” 

“Someone’s gotta do it,” Wei Wuxian says with a forced quirk of his lips. The more jaded, truer rejoinder might be that they have to occupy their time somehow, but it doesn’t merit saying. “How much are you offering?” Nie Huaisang hadn’t mentioned the promised reward. 

“Money’s no real object. Feel free to name your price.” A lull, and she adds, “Wouldn’t care to share any competing offers you have on record, would you?”

Wei Wuxian snorts, shakes his head. They haven’t taken money for a mission in years. When they have received payment, it’s usually taken the form of favors--help with cover-ups, a willingness to look the other way. But a transfusion of hard, legal cash would help. “Ah, I’ll invoice you.” A prickle at the back of his mind reminds him of a question he’d wanted answered, and he leans forward to ask it: “Why’d you leave the agency?” The dossier had only listed her resignation. Wen Qing’s lips purse. 

“My brother died,” she says shortly. “He had a long battle with cancer. I resigned to spend his last months with him, and when I looked up my path forward had made itself clear.” 

“Huh.” He starts to offer his condolences, as robotically as one overfamiliar with death himself, before he remembers it’s been eight years. “I see.” 

If the Moroccan summer was hot, Sudan is an open flame. But the temperature plunges by nightfall, a blessing as the trio hike through the desert in full gear, weighed down by a veritable armory of weapons. Seeing Lan Sizhui’s drawn expression, Wei Wuxian finds himself tempted to run through the plan again. Wen Qing had supplied a map of the compound, drone data, and even an unmarked helicopter courtesy of LOTUS for transportation. This extraction would be downright scientific. 

Instead, Wei Wuxian says, “Feeling alright, kid?”

Lan Sizhui grimaces, and in the next moment deliberately blanks out his expression. “Yes, perfectly.”

The compound where the terrorists have stationed themselves sprawls in the pit of a shallow valley, rimmed by sandy hills and shrubby desert trees. They scope it out from a concealed outcropping for a bit, noting the position of the guards closest to them. Two gun-toting figures patrol a gated entrance behind the tall barbed-wire fence. Viewing them through his scope, a grim resignation settles over Wei Wuxian. Not a literal weariness--the amphetamines he slipped earlier wouldn’t allow that--but something more spiritual. 

“Ready when you are,” Nie Huaisang tells him lowly. He nods. 

Wei Wuxian, champion of no less than a dozen archery contests in his youth, flattens himself behind his rifle and waits, still as stone, until the guards cross paths and he picks them off with a single bullet. Any cry they might’ve made is inaudible from such a distance, but he imagines it. He flattens his lips into a thin line and picks himself up, telling his partners, “Let’s move,” and not waiting for a response. 

They slice into the fencing and file inside, guns at the ready. Wei Wuxian’s eyes skim over the dead guards as they pass; the pool of blood melts into just another shadow. Approaching corners, they flatten themselves against the stony facade and listen for footfalls, for distant shouts. Wei Wuxian’s ears perk up at the crunch of boots on gravelly dirt and his body floods with the alertness of impending combat. He waits, letting the target draw closer, then rounds the corner and runs the unsuspecting guard through with a blade as long as his forearm in one powerful thrust. The man gurgles, falls to his knees as Wei Wuxian withdraws the weapon. The three immortals dash past without a second look. 

The compound unravels before them just as predicted by the map--Wei Wuxian had taken great care to memorize it. They work quietly and efficiently, Lan Sizhui slotting into the trio as if he’d shared the battlefield with them countless times before. The kid’s military training shows through. Breaching another dark alley, the three encounter a figure wide-open at the opposite end; Lan Sizhui calmly picks him off before he can so much as open his mouth to shout. 

Blades and high-tech silencers keep them incognito, but they have only minutes before the first shout of alarm goes up in their wake. _Must’ve discovered a body_. Wei Wuxian suppresses a shiver at the thought--always leaving a trail of death, so many lives carelessly snipped short--then returns his attention to his surroundings. 

They breach a courtyard and find it empty of guards, almost mysteriously so. Opposite them, a squat building with a conspicuously-barred door looms, half in shadow. They’d expected the holding area would be somewhere in the center of the compound. “This must be it,” Wei Wuxian whispers, just loud enough for the other two to hear him. They approach in formation, guns held aloft.

“Look.” Wei Wuxian follows Lan Sizhui’s gesture, eyes widening when they land on a pile of dirt-caked, child’s size shoes beside the doorway. He looks away sharply and swallows hard. No room for distraction now. 

Nie Huaisang exchanges a nod with Wei Wuxian before ducking into the doorway. He extracts a palm-sized explosive devise from his tactical vest and quickly wires it to the metal lock, darting out on its activation. The night holds its breath for the five intervening seconds--save for the murmurs of confusion elsewhere in the compound--before the door explodes outward in a grinding, earthen gasp of smoke and sparks.

Wei Wuxian moves in first, snapping on his rifle’s flashlight as he’s enveloped first by clouds of dust, then by darkness. They dash through a low-ceilinged corridor and down a series of steps that spills into a larger, warehouse-like room. Their lights eat up the space in moments, but it’s as vacant as the courtyard before it. Wei Wuxian falters, lowering his weapon slightly. 

“Think they moved them already?” Nie Huaisang murmurs. Wei Wuxian catches Lan Sizhui glancing at him from his periphery, as if awaiting instructions.

Before Wei Wuxian can respond--before he can even begin to formulate his next move--a pair of light fixtures on the fair wall snap on with a bone-chilling _click_ , blinding him momentarily. He blinks, registering the spotless concrete floor, the shadowy corridors that flank them on both sides.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, stomach sinking like a rock. _A trap_. _Were_ they too late? Were there ever any orphans to save at all? His finger tightens around the trigger, but he’s a beat too late: men storm into the space in a torrent of boots, their helmed figures and machine guns backlit by the LEDs. “ _Fire!_ ” He does, but a bullet hits him first. 

Wei Wuxian swears, icy-hot pain ripping through his bicep and weakening his grip, and fires back with gritted teeth. His ears feel split open by the cacophony. The men must have bulletproof vests--he can’t seem to pick them off with one shot. He aims for their heads, their weapons, anywhere that might hold them off, but his vision blurs as pain bleeds through his senses, turning his shots slow and clumsy. _There’s so many of them_ , Wei Wuxian marvels woozily; and they’re disciplined, downright militaristic. At least three fall with injuries, but the others don’t so much as hesitate in their onslaught. _Are these really terrorists?_

Lan Sizhui stumbles and crumples to his knees, then collapses face-down. Wei Wuxian screams--delirious with pain, furious with anger and regret--as a bullet rips through his throat, dropping his weapon and swooning into another gruesome spray of blood. He tastes metal as he hits the floor, head thunking on concrete. He goes numb. The gunfire recedes, leaving only an inner-ear echo and the sound of stray bullets rolling across concrete. It’s over in less than a minute. 

“Lock ‘em up!” a man shouts in English. Boots thunk across the floor, and Wei Wuxian finds himself hoisted and prodded at by no less than four pairs of hands, his arms forced behind his back and shackled, an asphyxiating restraint looped around his torso, and his legs bound together. His mind lurches to name the sensations, eyes blinking up at his captors stupidly as they slip into view. One of the faces is white. _Not Sudanese terrorists, anyway_. He feels his flesh start to force out the first of the bullets, hears the slimy suction of blood and flesh knitting itself together, but it’s too late. His body is so slow nowadays. He shouldn’t have gone down so easily. 

Rolled onto his belly, one of the men kneels across Wei Wuxian’s back, digs meaty fingers into his forearm, and slides a cool needle into a vein. Whatever’s in it, it’s potent stuff. Even as his immortal cells regenerate, the toxin suffuses his veins in moments, and he slips into unconsciousness like a candle snuffed. 

_Where am I?_

Wei Wuxian blinks open crusted-over eyes, and immediately regrets it as a blinding white light floods his vision. The stench of bleach and dried blood follows, and he wrinkles his nose. Even this faint movement arouses the ache in his facial muscles. His entire body is wrapped in soreness, no doubt the aftereffect of healing so many bullet wounds. Immortal or not, Wei Wuxian’s not as spry as he used to be. It’ll take a few days, minimum, for him to bounce back. 

_Back from_ that _._ The memory rushes forth: the compound, the orphans’ shoes (planted on purpose?), the bright lights and subsequent assault. Regret sits bitter and heavy on his tongue. _That_ was Lan Sizhui’s first mission. A complete failure. _His_ failure, Wei Wuxian’s failure. A total net loss of lives. 

And now they’re--

Wei Wuxian sits up, heart rate leaping--or tries to, only making it a few inches before restraints around his middle and all four limbs stop him short. _Captured_. 

Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen, taking in his surroundings through a lens of panic. Some sort of medical laboratory. _Fucking hell_. His worst nightmare comes to life around him, cloaked in sterile white and stainless steel grays: trays of vials and gleaming metal tools, flickering monitors linked to patches on his bare chest. He realizes he’s naked save for a pair of boxers that definitely _aren’t_ his own, the cool air peppering his skin with gooseflesh. A large, square bandage covers an odd throb in his left side. It has the sting of a fresh wound, one healed all of half an hour ago or less. He gulps. _What the hell did they do?_ He thinks he might be sick. _And who_ are _they?_

As if to answer his question, a door clicks open and slams a moment later somewhere near at hand. Two rapid pairs of footsteps follow. Voices, too, drawing closer. Wei Wuxian lifts his pounding head and squints as three figures enter: the first a woman in a white labcoat with a tablet clutched to her breast, the second a haughty-looking man in a dark navy suit, and the third--

Wei Wuxian’s heart monitor beeps a warning as his eyes lock on the slight figure who enters last. Her heels click in a precise rhythm along the tiled floor, and her red lips press into a thin line as she joins the others in front of his gurney. It’s a punch to the gut if he’s ever taken one. Wei Wuxian gapes at her like a fish.

“Wen Qing--”

“Oh, you’re awake,” the woman in a labcoat says, breaking off the one-sided conversation she’d been holding with her two guests. She balances her tablet on one forearm and taps the surface a few times. “This is Wei Wuxian.”

Wen Qing stares as expressionlessly as if she weren’t seeing him at all, her hands folded neatly at her front. The man in the navy suit wears his own reaction plainly, chewing his lip. Despite the obvious quality of his attire, there’s a greasy quality to his skin and hair that Wei Wuxian finds faintly unpleasant--if no more unpleasant than anything else about this place.

Finally, the man addresses him in a loud voice: “You, Wei Wuxian. How old are you?”


	7. KageHina (Haikyuu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sports journalist Hinata loses his job thanks to COVID-19 and decides to quarantine with Kageyama until he gets back on his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** General

“You got let go? Shit. That uh, sucks.” 

Tobio frames himself carefully in his phone’s front-facing camera, not letting on that he’s walking around his apartment in boxers with a towel slung around his shoulders, still damp from his shower. Shouyou hasn’t seen him shirtless since high school, back when they shared a locker room. Would be a little weird now, wouldn’t it? 

Shouyou snaps his bubble gum and makes a weary noise of assent. “They’re cutting back on everything. No sports means nothing for me to cover, anyway.” 

“They couldn’t have--” Tobio falters, then reminds himself that Shouyou doesn’t offend easily. “--assigned you to a different beat?” 

“They could have, I guess. But I’m--I _was_ the youngest staff writer, so.” Shouyou mimes a slice across his neck. “I was first to go.” 

“Oh,” Tobio says. “That sucks.”

“It fucking does,” Shouyou agrees on a sigh, a ragged edge slipping into his voice. He combs his fingers through the unruly orange nest of his hair, eyes gazing somewhere offscreen, and in doing so distracts Tobio enough that he accidentally flashes a nipple. “They really had me comfortable, you know. Thought that I was in it for the long term, but I only got eight months. Then bam. Over, back to square one.”

“Oh,” Tobio says again, and decides against reiterating how much, in fact, Shouyou’s situation sucks. “So are you, uh, freelancing again?” 

Shouyou’s laugh catches him off guard, sharp and humorless and terribly unlike the laughs Tobio so knows and loves. Er, doesn’t _love_ \--just prefers. Really, he has no opinion. “The market’s dead. I checked. I mean, who’s gonna pay for it?”

Tobio considers. “Nobody?”

“Bingo.” He smacks his chewing gum again, letting the silence stretch between them. Shouyou always insists on these video calls--he loathes the _impersonality_ of texting, or some bullshit, and even voice calls aren’t enough--but averts eye contact for most of them, directing his attention elsewhere as he livestreams whatever he’s doing to Tobio. And Tobio watches obediently as Shouyou, sighing, stands with a rustle of sound and starts ambling through whatever neighborhood park he’s called Tobio from. The sounds of passing cars and distant chatter, and now the rhythmic crunch of Shouyou’s footsteps on gravel, filter through tinny speakers into Tobio’s quiet apartment. 

Tobio’s eyes linger on the bottom half of Shouyou’s face, presently entombed in a plain surgical mask. He tells himself he doesn’t miss it. Why would he? Bow lips, freckle-spattered nose--all superfluous. 

“And,” Shouyou goes on as he walks, “between you and me, I don’t know how I’m gonna make rent this month.” 

The words hang between them. Shouyou keeps his camera focused squarely on his own distant expression, and Tobio finds himself running out of places to wander in his apartment, coming to rest at his door. He briefly entertains the urge to go outside, to join Shouyou--for all that he’s an hour’s train ride away--in the open air. But why would he? He went for his run, lifted his weights, all that. V.League activities have been tabled indefinitely. There’s nothing. 

Tobio blurts it out before he can reconsider. “You could stay with me.” 

Shouyou’s eyes snap to the camera, wide and intense, made honey-brown by the afternoon sun. “Kageyama-kun?” 

Tobio coughs into his fist. “If you need to, or whatever,” he says, aiming for casual even as the idea takes root, thrumming within him like a plucked string. 

“I--well.” Shouyou starts walking again, faster, as if agitated. “Yeah!” he says, half-breathless. “That would be perfect, actually. Do you have a couch?”

“There’s a spare room,” Tobio tells him, already mentally calculating where he’ll move his weights. 

“Oh, really? That’s perfect, let me just--yeah, I’m gonna cancel my lease, so you can’t kick me out, okay?” Tobio snorts, and Shouyou brings his phone closer to scowl. “I’m serious!” 

“I won’t kick you out,” Tobio promises, fighting the urge to laugh. He starts pacing again, running his fingertips along the kitchen countertop and envisioning how Shouyou might fill this very space. How his height would compare to the cabinets, the orange of his hair to the wallpaper. 

“I’d probably have to quarantine in the spare room first,” Shouyou says. “Two weeks or something? Like a quarantine within a quarantine. You could feed me through, like, a doggy door or something.”

“Doesn’t have a doggy door.”

“Whatever. I’ll bring snacks. 

Tobio scrubs a hand down his face, pressing a palm to his lips until his grin peels away. Shouyou’s always told him he has a creepy smile. “Okay. Cool.”

“I promise I won’t be a burden. Not for long, anyway.” Not waiting for Tobio’s rebuttal, Shouyou’s attention shoots offscreen, and he turns the camera around to focus on some corner of the park, where a bird-shaped shadow hops along the space between a trash can and a chain-link fence. “Look, a crow!” 

There’s a clip from the Adlers’ season opener press conference just last year, a moment about fifteen minutes into the livestream. Coach opens it up to questions, and immediately the floor goes to this pipsqueak of a reporter standing in the front row, his _Tokyo Star_ press badge strung proudly from his neck, hair gelled and parted and neater than Tobio had ever seen it. He addresses the team’s setter by name, asking after strategy and how the new first-string players will factor into his gameplay, something like that. Just incisive enough to show that he’s done his research. 

When the camera pans to Tobio, his face is screwed up like he just bit into an expired lemon. He stutters through his answer badly enough that one of the rookies, the new first-stringers in question, takes on the burden of tying up his thoughts for him so that they can move on. Tobio’s never been good with press conferences, never liked talking in public or talking much at all, but with Shouyou there?


	8. SakuAtsu (Haikyuu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atsumu and Sakusa go to a magical university of some sort and end up at the same party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** General

It’s a whispery autumn night, and Nekoma House has its red brick facade decked out in strings of glass baubles, each filled with a sparkling, self-contained ball of multi-colored light. The half-curtained windows emit a similar rainbow glow, amidst faint sounds of music and laughter that can be heard from a ways away. Atsumu is impressed and pleased, and enjoying a faint buzz from his efforts to pre-game. Nekoma always throws the best parties. Their reclusive mascot won some kind of prize at a shapeshifting exhibition just this week, so this one promises to be even better.

“Oh, right,” his companion, Shouyou, tells him as they crunched down the gravel path, sounding like he’s just remembered something. “I heard Sakusa Kiyoomi is coming.”

Atsumu promptly stops mid-step. “ _The_ Sakusa Kiyoomi?” he asks. 

“How many are there?”

“Just the one, I suppose. How do you figure?”

Shouyou shrugs. Atsumu’s roommate is dressed as horribly as ever--Hawaiian shirt buttoned over his narrow shoulders, flowery Converse, an actual, handmade flower crown nestled in his orange shock of hair. He’s still cute for it, which is even worse. “Yukie told me after the radio show yesterday, said she heard from a friend of Sakusa’s roommate.”

“Sounds like bunk,” Atsumu declares. They make their way up Nekoma House’s stone walkway, bordered on either side by a friendly thicket of spiny brambles. 

“Why? He’s as human as the rest of us. Well, probably.” 

Atop the porch, Shouyou knocks on the thick wooden door. The brass knob turns with a slow creak, the door swings open on its own, inviting them into the red-wallpapered common room. The fireplace is alight with red-gold flame, joining the technicolor flicker of the glass baubles strung around the walls; above it, the mantle boasts a familiar host of porcelain cat figurines, each with their right paw raised. 

The house is already filled with other students, Nekoma residents and guests alike slouched into the furniture and standing around with clay mugs in hand. Many of them look up at Atsumu and Shouyou’s entrance, and some greet them with waves and friendly calls to attention. On the staircase to the right, almost out of view, a cat with mottled spots over white fur watches with slitted, gold eyes. Atsumu catches his eye and nods. It’s only polite. The cat blinks, then darts up the stairs, disappearing from sight.

“Kuroo-san!” Shouyou greets, jumping into the fray immediately. He waves and shouts and allows himself to be thumped on the back by Testurou. Atsumu grins after him, nods at Shohei who sits unobtrusively in a far corner. Shohei gives a little wave back. They were lab partners in Alchemy I their first semester here, which was as grueling a bonding experience as any. 

He ends up going over to Shohei, Shouyou quickly becoming engrossed in half-shouted conversation with that incorrigible, too-tall Nekoma House freshman. Shohei has his hands clasped around his mug and sips from it almost daintily. Atsumu asks after its contents. 

“Witch’s brew,” Shohei tells him. “I know. It’s one of Kuroo’s new inventions.” He grimaces and adds, “Don’t bother if you have a weak stomach. Stuff is heady.” 

Atsumu thinks he can smell it in the air, like some kind of sugary, spiced vapor. “I’ll give it a go.” 

“There’s more in the kitchen. Be careful, though, you might run into Sakusa. He’s been staking the place out for some reason.”

Atsumu starts, spine straightening out. “Really? He’s here?”

“I know, right?” Shohei slurps down more witch’s brew and shakes his head. “He scares the shit out of me.”

Atsumu’s hands curl in his lap. He doesn’t admit that he doesn’t even know what Kiyoomi looks like; instead, he says, “Why? He’s just some suck-up nerd.”

Shohei ogles at him over his mug. “No, he’s a genius. Probably the finest sorcerer the school has seen in years.”

“Geez, where have I heard that before--”

“It’s true,” Shohei says. “All the professors are obsessed with him for a reason.”

Atsumu scoffs. “He’s a novelty. Oh, look, a talented young sorcerer with a knack for necromancy. I could’ve beaten him in the General Exam if there wasn’t so much subjectivity built into the scores.” 

Shohei takes another delicate sip, one thin eyebrow cocked. He doesn’t say, _Sore loser much?_ but Atsumu can just about hear it. “I trust you know your own abilities better than I do, Miya-kun.” 

Which, well. Shohei also doesn’t need to say, _I saw how many potions you bungled in first-semester Alchemy, Miya-kun_. _I heard about all of your late-night cram session breakdowns_. _Has Kiyoomi ever done any of that?_ Atsumu thinks it nonetheless, and it sits bitterly on his tongue as he rises to get a mug of his own. 

He winds through the common room--Shouyou now half-sitting on the freshman’s lap, to said freshman’s blustering, red-faced dismay--and the narrow, creaky hallways towards the kitchen. The TV room adjacent blares an assortment of basic radio hits, a handful of partygoers dancing themselves silly within it. People he struggles to recognize, but no one who smacks of _genius necromancer_ or, well, Sakusa Kiyoomi.

The kitchen, sleek granite countertops laden with bowls of candy and pitchers of conspicuous dark-violet liquid, is blessedly empty. A tiny knot releases in Atsumu’s chest. Not like he’s scared of Kiyoomi. He just doesn’t particularly want to meet him. 

He fetches a clay mug from one of the cabinets--handcrafted over the years by Nekoma residents--and pours himself a modest portion of Testurou’s brew. He sniffs, cringes away, then takes another, intrigued whiff. It’s as thick as syrup, and it goes down like tar. He coughs.

“The hell’s in this stuff?” he wonders aloud, examining it. He would put it past Testurou to poison an entire party, but maybe on accident--and then he senses a presence.

He looks up, casual, to the kitchen’s threshold. A tall, narrow figure stands there, turned wan by the common fluorescent light of the kitchen. He’s pale, dressed in all black. And very, horribly familiar.

Atsumu doesn’t drop his mug. He senses his grip slacken and sets it down before he does. He looks back up at the stranger with a heartbeat faster than it was a moment ago. 

He’s only ever seen him in passing. Once, at the beginning of the semester, the first day of Intro to Divination. There was a boy who showed up a comfortable five seconds before class started, strolling into the room with hands shoved in a purple warmup jacket and a double layer of surgical masks clasping the lower half of his face. His hair was ink-black and swept to one side in effortless, curled waves. He had gray, sunken-seeming eyes, thick lashes. Skin so pale Atsumu could see the blue veins in his temples, running in tributaries down the visible portion of his long, elegant neck. He took the only available seat, the one next to Atsumu, and Atsumu couldn’t look away. 

He kept glancing at the boy for the professor’s entire introduction, helpless to distraction, so perhaps it was his luck that said boy took off as soon as he received his copy of the syllabus. Didn’t even say a word. Just got up, stapled packet in hand, and walked out of the lecture hall without a second look. 

It was kind of rude, honestly, but the professor didn’t question it. No one did. Except Atsumu, who felt like his world had been rudely turned upside-down. 

Now, the same boy stands before him--except his mask is black cloth, and he wears a turtleneck, not a jacket, the fabric of it clinging to his lean frame and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His jeans are black, tight, ripped across the thighs. He holds onto the threshold with a pale hand and stares at Atsumu with a morose, gray gaze. Atsumu has to remind himself to breathe.

“Are you done?” the boy asks, muffled through the mask. Atsumu gulps. His voice is strange, bored, as irreverent and eerily beautiful as everything else about him. Atsumu prays that months of brimming obsession aren’t spelled out on his face as he nods, jerkily, and pulls away from the counter. 


	9. WangXian (MDZS)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mozart in the Jungle (2014-2018) but WangXian and also it's a traditional Chinese orchestra and some sort of weird non-Earth AU, because researching things is hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** General

Lan Wangji is the first to arrive to Caiyi Symphony’s morning rehearsals. This is routine enough that it may as well be fact. Today, though, promises to be less than routine, as it follows Jin Guangshan’s final spring closer, the aging conductor stepping down from the podium for the last time. Lan Wangji has already braced himself for the inevitability of what comes next. 

What he does not expect is to hear a dizi, filtering from the empty concert hall. 

Lan Wangji sets down his guzheng and listens, calmly delineating the possibilities. Either there is a very musically gifted intruder in-house, or their new conductor is an earlier riser than he might’ve thought. 

The latter, of course. Lan Wangji wouldn’t be so amateur as to mistake Wei Wuxian’s playing. 

His lips part unconsciously. The sound is clear as glass even from the dressing room, each note vibrant with an energy he didn’t know a dizi could carry. He doesn’t recognize the song. An original composition, perhaps. But the carefree twists of melody make him think otherwise. Improvisation. 

The flute trails off. Footsteps. 

“Your tea, sir,” says an unfamiliar voice. 

“Thank you, thank you.” Wei Wuxian, without question. “Ugh, the acoustics here are so outdated. But I think I can tolerate it, now that I’ve christened this place with Chenqing.” 

“I hope so, sir. It’s a three-year contract.”

“I hope so too, Wen Ning. Once I get money rolling in the symphony’s coffers I’ll put pressure on those stuffy board members to upgrade. Add that to the list.” 

“Got it, sir.” 

“Mm, don’t call me sir when no one’s around. Makes me think you’re flirting.”

“Wei Wuxian,” the voice--Wen Ning, he supposes--says, distressed but somehow fond.

Lan Wangji snaps his lips back together. He returns his attention to the instrument in front of him, unpacking it with his careful, ritualized slowness. 

He knew Wei Wuxian would be like this. The reality, though, is something else. 

He thinks of the meetings, of the carefully-worded protests and motions he made over the course of the months that the Caiyi Symphony courted Wei Wuxian. Perhaps he should have been more forthright. Less diplomatic. But what is a Lan without his manners?

He cleans Bichen’s strings until percussionist Nie Huaisang arrives, greeting him loudly enough to make him cringe--surely the conductor would hear--and clapping a hand on his back. “Lan Wangji! Man, you were right about the whole abstinence from worldly pleasures thing. I can barely fucking stand right now. Alcohol is...not good.”

Lan Wangji’s furrowed brow deepens. “So you say at the end of every season. And yet you continue to take those occasions to outdrink your body weight.” Which isn’t much. Nei Huaisang is not a large man. 

“I never claimed to be wise.” Nei Huaisang fumbles with his locker down the row from Lan Wangji’s, keys jangling. “And there was _so much_ fucking champagne--Madam Jin is a goddess, I owe her the finest parties of my life. By the way, holy shit, did you see what Maestro Wei did? Maybe if you’d stayed--”

Lan Wangji inclines his head towards the door leading to the concert hall. Nie Huaisang pauses.

“He’s out there?” he asks, voice lowered. Lan Wangji nods. “Well, I suppose we’ll be seeing enough of him eventually.” 

“Mn.”


	10. ChuuLip (LOONA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jungeun visits Jiwoo's place for dinner for the first time since they started dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** General

💬 Messages 8:31 PM

**♡** **=* jiwooming *=** **♡**

hows boring bitch college 

**You**

I miss you already

**♡** **=* jiwooming *=** **♡**

u too libbie x

met any cute boys yet?

**You**

not really

i mean

Objectively speaking, yes

**♡** **=* jiwooming *=** **♡**

oh

i see

met any cute girls?

I’m going to die, Jungeun thinks. 

Jiwoo Kim’s house, with its peach trimmings and neat, snow-dusted square of lawn, looms before her like a fortress. The yellow light of the street lamp is ominous rather than warm, and Jungeun tries very hard not to crumple the red 24-Hour Mart tulip in her sweat-slick hand. This was a mistake, she decides--getting the tulip, coming here in the first place, being born--but having made it this far, she takes the next step, and the next, until she stands before the very door she was dreading. 

She rings the doorbell. 

Jungeun manages to withdraw her hand about three inches before the door swings open.

“Jungeun, sweetie!” Mrs. Kim, round and apple-cheeked as ever, throws her arms wide. “Oh my goodness, you’ve grown so much. Come in, come in!” She lands a hand on Jungeun’s shoulder and pulls her into a hug before Jungeun can dodge it. Jungeun clutches the flower at her sides, tries to peel the smile from her lips. 

“Thanks for having me, Mrs. Kim,” she says, and Mrs. Kim chuckles. 

“Oh, you know you’re always welcome.” She draws back, pats Jungeun on the shoulders and looks up at her with twinkling eyes. Then Jungeun glances over the Kim matriarch’s shoulder, and sees her standing, arms crossed, at the end of the hall. 

The vise around Jungeun’s heart pulls tight enough to put Mrs. Kim’s hugs to shame. God help me, she thinks, and tries to wet her tongue.

“Hey,” she manages. Jiwoo lifts her chin in acknowledgement. 

“Hey.” 

“What’s this?” Mrs. Kim says, and Jungeun looks away first. “Pretty flower you’ve got there.”

“Oh, this?” She examines the flower in crinkled plastic like it’s the first time she’s seen it, then thrusts it outward. “Um, it’s f-for you. For your, uh, hospitality.” 

Mrs. Kim clucks her tongue. “How sweet, you’re too dear, Jungeun. Thank you.” She accepts it with a slight bow, says, “I’ll go put it in some water. You girls catch up, dinner will be ready soon.” 

Mrs. Kim pads down the hall, shooting Jiwoo--if Jungeun isn’t mistaken--a rather obvious wink before she rounds the corner. Jungeun’s heart nearly stops. 

“Looking good, Lippie,” Jiwoo says, uncrossing her arms and swinging them at her sides as she approaches. 

“Does she know?” 

There’s no way Jiwoo’s parents would have heard her, not at that volume, but her pulse races anyway. Chuu stops short, and her brow crinkles. 

“Huh? No way, I’m not stupid.” A devilish little smile curves her lips. “They’d never let you sleep over.” 

“Oh.” Jungeun wets her lips. That’s right. Because sleepovers--while being in a--you know--mean--

Jiwoo flicks her in the forehead. Jungeun blinks, and finds Jiwoo peering at her with amusement. 

“That hurt.”

“Sorry,” Jiwoo says, not sorry at all. “You were standing in the driveway for like, ten minutes.”

Jungeun groans, prays for her death to be swift. “You saw me?” 

“Um, yeah. You told me you were on your way.” 

“Ugh. I was just...thinking.”

“Something good?” Jiwoo singsongs, and for the first time, Jungeun allows herself to look at her. Her bangs, neat and curled, the loose, fluffy sweater that hangs below her hips over a ruffled skirt, white knee socks. Her toes curl and uncurl against the carpet.

“It was nothing,” Jungeun blurts. “Forget it.” 

“Okay.” Jiwoo’s eyes are searching, and Jungeun is about to make a dash for the nearest open grave when she’s pulled into a hug for the second time that night. 

Her sweater is as soft as it looks. Her nape smells sweet, like cinnamon. 

“Don’t be nervous,” Jiwoo whispers against her ear. “I missed you.”

“Y-yeah. Me too,” Jungeun says. Coughs. 

Jiwoo giggles, smacks Jungeun on the back--Jungeun emitting a soft _oof_ \--before drawing back. She lets her arms hang from Jungeun’s neck, though, looking up at her with a sweet smile. Jungeun is sure she’s blushing furiously, but she can only gaze helplessly back, heart throbbing in her chest. Then Jiwoo gives a little sideways glance, and before Jungeun can react, leans forward to peck her on the lips. 

Her aim is off, and her glossed lips meet the corner of Jungeun’s. Jungeun’s eyes close, then fly open, stunned. 

Jiwoo’s arms slide from her neck. “Oh, there’s a spot.” She reaches up to thumb at the corner of Jungeun’s lips, rubbing away a bit of lip gloss. She meets Jungeun’s eyes, smiles sheepishly with teeth. “Um, should I not have done that?”

“No,” Jungeun says, but the word feels wrong. “I mean, yes. I mean--” Jiwoo giggles, and words continue to fail her. “That was--that was fine.”

“Sorry.” Jiwoo rubs the back of her neck, looking up at Jungeun through her lashes. God, she has nice ones, doesn’t she, thick and slightly curled, and why hadn’t Jungeun noticed before? “I’ll ask next time.”

“Some warning would be nice,” Jungeun admits. She suspects, though, that it won’t help with the sirens going off in her chest. She’ll probably die either way. 

💬 Messages 11:49 PM

**♡** **=* jiwooming *=** **♡**

hh i wish u were here rn

wanna kith ur face 

500 times

**You**

stop

i have to concentrate T_T

**♡** **=* jiwooming *=** **♡**

u cant concentrate

if i say i wanna kiss u? :p

i could do so much worse

Dinner is a richly spiced beef stew with rice, the smell flooding the house. Mrs. Kim ladles out bowls to each of them while Jungeun sits with her hands folded in her lap, convinced that _I’m dating your daughter_ and _I just kissed your daughter in the entryway_ are written in permanent marker across her forehead. Her phone burns a hole in her pocket. It’s all there, written in miles of text messages--all their grotesque, blush-inducing flirting, every cheesy promise, their confessions and joke-flirting-that-wasn’t-actually-a-joke from even before. The evidence would be damning. 

The red tulip stands in a slender vase at the center of the table. Mr. Kim asks Jungeun politely about her studies, her adventures in Division III women’s volleyball. Mrs. Kim pours her a couple fingers of wine, just enough to wet the palate. 

Halfway through the meal, Jiwoo nudges Jungeun’s knee under the tablecloth. Jungeun almost whips her head around, but has the wisdom to settle for a sideways glance. Jiwoo’s lips curve around her fork. Jungeun raises an eyebrow, just a hair, and returns her eyes to her plate. 

“How is it, dears,” Mrs. Kim asks. Jungeun raises both eyebrows and nods in enthusiasm. 

“So good,” she says, giving a thumbs up. “Hits the spot.” 

“I’m glad.” Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “I hope you’re eating well. Growing girl like you, especially being an athlete.” She sighs, and Jungeun thinks guiltily of the mountains of cup ramen she ate during exam weeks. “I wish Jiwoo stuck with volleyball, I always loved watching those games.” Mrs. Kim raises her palm and swings it forward in a crude imitation of a spike. “ _Wap_ , _wap_ , so exciting. Never had a _clue_ about the rules.” 

“Mom,” Jiwoo says, a hint of a whine in her voice, “you know I’m not good enough to play for them. SMU is Division I, remember?” 

“Of course you are, sweetie. You were always such a good--what is it? Liberal?”

“Libero,” Jiwoo says. Jungeun laughs into her stew. 

“That’s it. Ah, you and Jungeunnie, you made such a good pair out there.” Mrs. Kim tilts her chin towards her husband. “Isn’t that right, dear?” 

Mr. Kim hums his agreement, mouth full of rice. 

“We did,” Jiwoo agrees mournfully. She catches Jungeun’s eye, then reaches one socked foot over to rub Jungeun’s shin. “I wish we could still play together.” 

Restraining her above-table reaction, Jungeun jerks her leg back--but in such closed quarters, the foot still pursues her, creeping higher and higher until Jiwoo is practically sitting criss-crossed with her foot resting atop Jungeun’s knee. 

“We could,” Jungeun hums, her voice light. “Maybe we could get together some of our old team.”

“You’re probably so much better than me, now,” Jiwoo says. Her foot curls inward, sliding up Jungeun’s clothed thigh. Jungeun’s cheeks burn. She decides grabbing the foot would be unsanitary--she’s still eating, after all--and instead tries to subtly jostle her off. “I don’t know if I’d be able to keep up.” 

Jungeun turns to face Jiwoo, and almost bursts out laughing at Jiwoo’s pout. She snorts into her hand, says, “I’ll--ha! I’ll go easy on you.” 

“Oh, really?” Jiwoo rests her chin in her palms, mouth still twisted in that ridiculous pout. Jungeun thinks, with a surge of inexplicable feeling, that she wants to kiss it. “I wouldn’t want you to, though.”

The foot taps her thigh once, then slides off. Jiwoo sends her a sideways glance. Then, with her face carefully angled away from her parents, a wink. 

Jungeun’s stomach swoops. 

“Jiwoo’s a big fan, Jungeun,” Mrs. Kim comments after a silence. “She watches all of your games. Not sure how, but she does it.”

“Really?” Jungeun says at the same time that Jiwoo groans and buries her head in her palms. “I’m pretty sure they’re livestreamed.” 

“Mom,” Jiwoo moans. “So embarrassing.” 

“How is it embarrassing? I think it’s lovely how supportive you are of your friend.” 

“I didn’t know,” Jungeun says. She chews mechanically, feeling light all over. Maybe the wine is getting to her head. 

“Oh, she tells me all about it. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you, too.” 

Jungeun watches the rising color in Jiwoo’s cheeks, and feels some of the tension leave her chest. 

💬 Messages 2:14 AM

**♡** **=* jiwooming *=** **♡**

bb i cant sleep

**You**

how is that my fault

**♡** **=* jiwooming *=** **♡**

bc im thinking abt you :3c

**You**

ugh

**♡** **=* jiwooming *=** **♡**

dont ugh me >:(

i have a burning question

**You**

you should get that checked out

**♡** **=* jiwooming *=** **♡**

was i ur 1st gay crush?

**You**

who says i have a crush on you :/

**♡** **=* jiwooming *=** **♡**

kimlip u were typing for 10 minutes

that’s a record

**You**

i hate you

The strawberry tart Mrs. Kim bought sits pleasantly in Jungeun’s stomach when Jiwoo drags her up to her bedroom, her hand hot on Jungeun’s wrist. Jungeun should’ve expected it, but she didn’t help Jiwoo pack, after all, having left a week earlier for training camp. Jiwoo’s room is different, now, a shell of itself--the pastel pink walls are stripped of Jiwoo’s TWICE and Spice Girls posters, her bookshelf bare of her favorite shoujo manga, the fairy lights that hung around her bed absent. 

Jiwoo flops down on her bed, skirt fluttering, and starts drumming her thighs. “Wanna watch a movie or something? I mean, I’d drill you for every bit of gossip from that lame-o school of yours, but you’re probably tired from your flight, so…” She looks up, cocks her head when she sees Jungeun’s hesitation. “You gonna come in?”

“Sorry.” Jungeun steps past the threshold, closing the door behind her. Jiwoo nods towards it, a smirk curving her lips. 

“Lock it, too.”

“Right.” Jungeun complies, tries not to think about the implication as she bites her lip on a smile. She is tired, to be honest, so she agrees, “A movie works.” 

“Oh!” Jiwoo snaps her fingers and stands to fetch her laptop. “We never finished Hunter x Hunter, right? Let’s do that.” 

Jungeun settles on the bed next to where Jiwoo had been, curling her fingers in the fuzzy bedspread. “I don’t even remember where we left off.”

“Somewhere in the hundreds. I don’t know. It’s probably saved on here somewhere.”

Jiwoo sits on the other side of the bed with laptop in lap, swinging her legs in front of her and wiggling her socked feet as she types. Somewhat hesitant, Jungeun joins her, edging closer to rest against the pile of pillows at the headboard. It’s a position they’ve assumed a hundred times before, but it somehow feels new, like everything else. 


	11. YuWin (NCT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sicheng sells his heart to demon Yuta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** Teen

The summons is made an hour before dawn, right at the end of his shift. 

Yuta makes his appearance beneath the shade of a willow; its twisted branches sag between the fork in the road, yellowed crabgrass at its foot. Before him, a blood sigil has been painstakingly painted on cracked pavement. It’s good work, really. Someone did their research.

And that someone--Yuta raises his eyes to meet the trembling visage of his summoner. There’s a heavy fog between them, enough that it might obscure human vision, but Yuta’s demon eyes are sharp. The man cuts a tall, lean figure, head bowed and blood still dripping from hands clenched at his sides. His heart thumps like a festival drum. If Yuta shifted his vision just so, he would see it beating in his chest, beckoning to him like a golden egg. He doesn’t, though, not yet. That can wait. 

Slowly, Yuta steps out onto the road. The man’s head snaps up, eyes locking onto him. Yuta lets himself smile easily. He thumbs the belt loops of his jeans (the ones with stains of blood and grime that he always wears in human form) and nods towards the bloody array. 

“Good stuff, man,” Yuta says, and the summoner jolts. He hides his amusement in a smirk. This is an antsy one--he must be asking for something horrible. “You really don’t see sigil work like this anymore. You self-taught?”

Silence hangs between them, the summoner staring slack-jawed. Maybe he didn’t expect demons to small talk. Finally, he answers, in a low, unsteady voice: “Y-yeah. H-how else would I learn?” 

Yuta shrugs. “There used to be schools, underground cults. Probably still are, somewhere. Italy, maybe. Not in my sphere of influence.” 

The man processes this for a moment, then nods once, sharply. Yuta peers at him, curious if he will demand to get on with it. He’s uncommonly young, Yuta notes with mild surprise, small-faced, tawny bangs falling over birdlike features and sharp eyes that shimmer with nervousness. On second thought, he’s uncommonly pretty, too. 

It’s been so long since Yuta passed over that he scarcely remembers his human life, but he remembers this--chasing after girls, boys too, despite the associated risk, using charming smiles and smooth words to seduce all sorts of pretty things into his bed. And this young man would’ve been just his type. 

Not that it’s relevant. The only things he uses smooth words for now are deals with the devil. 

“So,” Yuta hums, stepping onto the sigil. The blood is fresh, tacky underneath his boots and wafting a faint metallic smell to his nose. “To what do I owe this occasion? Something you want, isn’t there?” 

The man nods again, a bit slower this time. The moonlight is doing wonders for his cheekbones, Yuta muses. 

“You got a name?” 

The summoner’s throat bobs. “Winwin.” 

Yuta reaches the center of the sigil and stops. The way the man’s--Winwin’s--heartbeat stutters guiltily at the word tells him all he needs to know. “Sure you want to carry out a demonic ritual under a false name?”

“H-how do you know?”

“My kind can smell lies. But I’m only teasing--I’m sure your research assured you of that. The Dark Lord doesn’t care for names.” Winwin, though. That’s a cute one. “Come closer, let’s get this show on the road.” 

Winwin watches him for another moment, then takes a tentative step onto the array. He shoves his still-bleeding hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he goes--good catch, Yuta thinks, since stray drops could alter the spell in unpredictable ways. 

Less than a meter apart at the sigil’s center, Winwin stands a good few centimeters taller than Yuta; what’s more apparent, though, is the way his entire body shivers despite the balmy weather, shuddering against the increasingly-rapid beat of his heart. Yuta can almost feel something like an echo of pity. If Winwin wanted to back out now, he’d let him go; demons of his rank aren’t so cruel as to take hearts from the unwilling. 

“Having second thoughts?” Yuta asks. 

Winwin shakes his head. “No.”

Yuta huffs out a laugh. “Of course, guy like you wouldn’t pull something like this without thinking it through. Real brainy type, huh? I’m curious where you’re lending all that intellect.” 

Winwin blinks at him.

“What do you do, Winwin? What’s your day job, when you’re not summoning demons.” 

Winwin stares, brown eyes made pale by moonlight, then drops his gaze to the pavement. “I’m a dancer.” 

Yuta processes this with mild surprise that quickly fades. Flicking his eyes up and down Winwin’s body, the title seems written all over him--long limbs, proud posture. “You’re good, aren’t you?” 

Winwin’s lips--full, pink, not that Yuta had noticed--go thin. “I do my best.” 

A knowing smirk slides onto Yuta’s face. “Not enough, though, is it?” They always reveal their hands so easily. Even the clever ones. “Hit a wall, so you’ve turned to me.” 

“You could say that.” 

Yuta inches closer word by word, enough that he has to tilt his head back just a hair to meet Winwin’s gaze. “Well, I say that you’ve come to the right place.” 

The trembling has only grown more intense, but Yuta doesn’t mind it. Fear is normal. 

But Yuta pauses when a tear spills out and rolls down Winwin’s cheek. Something in him softens, even if the poor bastard brought it on himself. 

“Let it out, man, let it out.” He grasps Winwin by the elbow, and the summoner jolts, looking down at Yuta’s hand as if it were a brand. Demons do have a lower than average body temperature, Yuta reasons, and he releases him. “Another minute, and you’ll never cry again.” 

Winwin’s eyes shutter, eyelashes long and damp against his cheeks. He draws in a shaky breath. “Alright. Okay.”

“You with me?” 

“Just do it.” His eyes are pleading when he opens them. “Please.” 

“Then you only have to say the word, my friend.” 

“Right.” Winwin takes in another gulp of air, squares his shoulders as fixes his gaze on Yuta; then he finishes the incantation in a voice barely above a whisper: “I offer this, my heart, to thee, the Lord of Darkness, that your humble servant may eat and my request may be granted.” 

Yuta’s eyes melt to black. “This humble servant accepts your offering,” he murmurs, and thrusts his hand into Winwin’s chest. 

The obstacles of flesh and bone mean little to a demon like Yuta. This, after all, is his job. His hand slides into Winwin’s chest cavity as if through water and grasps the slippery, pulsing organ with little effort. 

The moment Yuta takes the heart in hand, intent flows through him with the force of a rip current, flooding deadened nerves and setting his dark energy-powered demon-brain alight. He almost staggers at the force of it--not only the concentrated intent of Winwin’s request, but reams of unbridled passion, love, shame, heartbreak, regret. Yuta’s head throbs, feeling every lingering ache pour out of Winwin’s heart. It’s never this intense. 

And from that nervous, boyish figure--he never could have expected it.

Yuta grits his teeth and twists his wrist; and with muffled snaps of blood vessels, the heart is freed. 

The flow of energy dies down rapidly as he draws it out of Winwin’s chest, leaving not a drop of blood on his clothing. Yuta cradles the still-beating organ carefully, using demonic energy to prevent squirts of blood from marring the sigil, and flashes a hollow smile at the summoner as he buckles, coughs up a mouthful of blood. The pain is no doubt beyond words, but Winwin’s well-drawn sigil will have already begun to seal his internal wounds, casting glamours that will protect him from curious medical practitioners and other common people. 

Winwin’s eyes are glazed when he straightens up and wipes the blood from his mouth. His gaze slides over to the heart, watches it pump uselessly without affect. 

Like that, all of Winwin’s vulnerability has disappeared. Seeing that slack expression extinguishes any flicker of interest Yuta might have had in him. Without a heart, he’s just another customer, another man overtaken by greed. 

The closest feeling might be disgust. But demons don’t feel the same way humans do, and Yuta has long since made his peace with this. 

Yuta’s lip curls, and he bends into a slight bow. “Pleasure to do business with you.”

Winwin doesn’t respond. His breaths are ragged, loud in the silence before dawn. Yuta figures he’ll pass out in a few minutes and wake to diminished memories of the proceedings; and with that, he takes his leave. 

Yuta doesn’t eat Winwin’s heart immediately. 

First, as he passes back into the Underworld, he finds his appetite has faded in favor of a bone-deep exhaustion. He shifts into his true form gladly and retires to his quarters to recharge, adding the heart to his meager, but treasured reserves. While human eyes couldn’t distinguish them, Yuta knows each one’s story, well, by heart--the cheating accountant, the sociopath from Wall Street, the author with a vendetta. Winwin the over-ambitious dancer fits in like a glove. 

Taeil, the most senior demon in their division, soon lets himself in Yuta’s quarters. He finds his junior luxuriating in a swirling mass of dark energy, summoned by a restorative talisman to better aid his recovery. 

“Rough night?” Taeil asks. 

Yuta lets his awareness wash over to Taeil. “A bit, yeah.” He didn’t have a particularly dense evening of assignments, but teleportation still taxes him after a hundred and fifty years in the business. And Winwin’s heart--that was unusual. Nothing to dwell on, but it happened, sapped him of dark energy in a way that fifty ordinary summons couldn’t and brought him, just for a moment, dangerously close to the brink of feeling human. 

Memories of specific episodes from his life, on those rare occasions that Yuta recalls them, mostly feel like they happened to someone else. He can vaguely recall the mechanical day-to-day of what it was to be human. It’s the emotional qualities that he lacks, that he catches glimpses of with each heart he harvests, that feel the most vivid. 

Yuta reasons there’s no need to keep secrets from Taeil. And as demons have no need for sleep, he’ll have nothing else to do in the meanwhile. 

“And my last one,” Yuta goes on after a lengthy silence, “this one guy. He was kind of fidgety, but his intent was _really_ intense. Like, I don’t remember the last time...” He trails off, trying to recall an equal. 

Taeil emits a noise of neutral acknowledgement. “Did you figure out his request?” 

Yuta’s face twists. Technically, wishes are confidential; also technically, no demon of their rank would have full disclosure of the wishes, anyway, and educated guesses are all they have. “Said he was a dancer, so probably competitive.”

“How expected.”

“Truly.” There’s a monotony to this job, after a certain point.

“Did you eat him yet?” He didn’t. “Can I see?”

Wearily, Yuta drags himself from his position of recline, dark energy trailing off his body in curls of black smoke. He opens his reserves, and the elder demon makes a small noise when he points out the latest addition. 

“Well-formed,” Taeil praises. “Low cholesterol levels. Man was healthy.” 

“Yeah, well, dancer.” If Yuta was in human form, he would’ve rolled his eyes. Comparing the vitality of the human hearts they encounter has become somewhat of a hobby for Taeil; and while Yuta couldn’t care less, the Underworld gets boring, a bit lonely sometimes, so he puts up with it for the sake of their camaraderie. “I mean, he looked fit.”

“You found him attractive?”

The way Yuta sputters must only confirm Taeil’s suspicion. Where it was written on Yuta’s face, he has no idea. “No? But like, objectively speaking, he was handsome.” 

“Didn’t get a name?” 

“Winwin,” Yuta tells him before he can think better of it. “Not his real name, though.”

Taeil hums. “Cute nickname. I wonder where he got it.”

“I don’t. Who cares, man.” 

Taeil shoots him a look of amusement, but doesn’t press the subject further. Taeil is easygoing like that. He knows when to lay off. A thousand years of serving the devil has granted him greater patience than most.

In the days that follow, Yuta recovers, but he doesn’t touch the heart. He takes his meals elsewhere, avoiding Winwin’s whenever he dips into his reserves. Like all the others, it beats away supernaturally, light energy sustaining the bloody muscle even in the chasm of the Underworld. 

But while Yuta endeavors to forget about their encounter, Winwin’s heart unnerves him him in a way he can’t ignore. Usually, once parted from the body, and especially with the passing of time, the heart’s energy dwindles enough to be unnoticeable without concentration. Yuta finds himself opening up his reserves when he’s not hungry, just to watch it expand and contract, giving off waves of painfully human sentiment. Yuta meditates on it, frustrated at his inability to identify the feeling by its name, or its nature, like one who has gone so long without food they can no longer describe flavor. Months later, the answer comes to him.

Longing.


	12. 2Jin (LOONA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heejin and Hyunjin childhood friends-to-lovers in a generic American setting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** Teen

Heejin’s favorite sweater went missing the week Hyunjin left for soccer camp, a week and a half before their last year of high school. The soft grey one with the initials of her older sister Gaeun’s school, Boston Business College, worn often enough that it became a kind of security blanket. 

“You’re kidding me,” she muttered to herself, rooting through her laundry basket, then the piles scattered across her room, then her closet. Sure enough, it was gone. For some reason it grated on her nerves. She took off her bluetooth headphones and let them hang around her neck, cutting off the new Crush album playing through them, and flopped down on her bed. She’d check the laundry room later, even if she hardly ever washed it, and look through the rest of the house. Maybe her mom had confiscated it. The Jeon matriarch did that sometimes, always subtly trying to guide her youngest daughter towards cleanliness and presentability even when Heejin didn’t care. 

Goosebumps sprung up on her bare arms without the protection of the sweater, even as the end-of-summer sun set through her bedroom window, desktop fan doing little to push around the warm, stale air. Heejin was thin, maybe too thin, always complaining of the cold, and laying there empty handed she felt as if she’d been robbed of a second skin. 

She grabbed her gudetama pillow and hugged it to her chest, willing away the goosebumps as she stared across the room. Her eyes settled naturally on the bulletin board pinned with doodles, polaroids, and ribbons above her desk, the academic trophies crammed onto the shelves between old, crumpled papers and notebooks, coated with dust. A science bowl trophy from this year, academic decathlon trophy from that year, spelling bee, mock trial, mock United Nations. On the desk, a textbook sat open with a highlighter still uncapped--a reading for one of her AP classes assigned before class even started. On a stand beside her desk, her guitar. The frets would still be warm from her practice that afternoon, but soon they, too, would collect dust as she settled into the frenetic pace of the school year. This, after all, was a big one. 

She usually didn’t mind the work, thrived on it actually--but now it seemed dreary. There was nothing better than a guitar in her hands and a song on her lips. Her limbs grew heavy as she thought back on the summer: no, there was nothing better than dancing, from learning routines to straight up going ballistic to her favorite pop songs, nothing better than road trips to the coast and days spent on the beach with warm sand between her toes, nothing better than staying up all night with Hyunjin, sharing what few secrets they didn’t already know and laughing until they ached. 

She realized this was the longest she’d gone without seeing Hyunjin all summer. And before that? She couldn’t even remember. They’d always gone to the same schools, ended up in most of the same classes and clung together whenever they could. They had their camps and family trips, but they always ended up texting or facetiming or on the phone with each other somehow, like they couldn’t stand to be apart. 

It was probably that they’d grown up on a near constant diet of each other, their families living next door, bedrooms facing; without it, they felt unmoored, life too unwieldy to handle. 

Or maybe that was just Heejin. 

She shook off the idea. Hyunjin had been a bit weird as she left for camp yesterday. Her thoughts were plainly in another place as Heejin chattered and helped her pack, cagey when Heejin asked her about the local league acquaintances she’d meet as she stayed overnight at a local university. But soon Hyunjin would text her with some quip or funny photo, and things would slip back into normalcy like a well-worn glove. 

Heejin threw off the pillow and headphones and rolled off her bed, vertigo hitting for a moment when she stood. She clutched her forehead for a moment--was she really that tired?--then headed out of the bedroom to search for her sweatshirt. 

“Mama!” she called, bounding into the living room and prying open the cracks between the couch’s seat cushions in case her sweater had somehow, impossibly, ended up in there. “Have you seen my sweater?” 

Her mother was in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables loudly enough that every thwack on the cutting board had filtered through her bedroom walls, while a trot CD played lowly from their old radio. Kimchi stew tonight, she could smell it. Her stomach rumbled. “Don’t think that I have, honey, though I might have picked it up by accident. Have you checked the laundry room?” 

“Mmm, I’ll do that.” 

The tiles of the laundry room were cold on her bare feet as she pushed the door open and dove into the basket of dirty laundry waiting in front of the machines. She wrinkled her nose turning over socks and dirty underwear. It wasn’t there.

Emerging from the laundry room unvictorious, her mother shot a meaningful look over the kitchen island. Heejin met it with a shrug and went to head back into her room when her mother spoke. 

“Have you talked to Hyunjin today?” 

Heejin frowned. “Not yet. Why?” 

“Well, maybe she took it.”

Her frown deepened, brow furrowing. Hyunjin did play pranks, but this didn’t seem like her style. “Why would she do that?” 

“Don’t know myself, but it could be worth asking.” 

Heejin nodded slowly. Maybe later. She didn’t want to open their first conversation of the day with an accusation. Again, she turned to head back to her room.

“While you’re here, honey, help me finish off peeling these carrots, would you?” Heejin’s lips cracked into a smile even as she rolled her eyes. Her mother waved her over with the knife in hand. “My little rabbit. No use moping in your bedroom all day because Hyunjinnie isn’t here.” 

“I wasn’t moping, Mama,” Heejin said exasperatedly.

“Mhm-hm.”

Up close, the steam of boiling water and soup wrapped around her like a soothing cloak; the smell of kimchi and spices welcomed her like an old friend, and having peeled her first carrot, she popped a slice into her mouth. 

The sun had almost disappeared below the tree line when they sat down at the table, just the two of them. Heejin’s mother had on a traditional opera CD on now, the type of thing she’d say was intellectually stimulating. But it was more of a balm than anything, familiar and forgiving. 

The stew and warm rice in front of her, Heejin forgot her restraint and immediately began wolfing it down. She looked up guiltily mid-swallow and found her mother watching her, lips quirked above her glass of red wine. 

“‘S good,” Heejin said through her food.

“Swallow, then talk. You’re not a child anymore.” 

_Am I?_ she wondered. “Sorry, Mama.” 

“Don’t be.” 

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Heejin gradually slowing her pace, then getting up for a second helping.

“You seem ravenous today, Heekie.”

Heejin tried to think of what she’d done that would’ve made her this hungry, but came up short. A bike ride to the library, a few hoops in Hyunjin’s driveway, guitar all afternoon. Hardly anything. She shrugged.

“Have you been eating enough? Did you have breakfast?” 

At this, her mind went blank. “I don’t remember.” 

Her mother’s expression was careful, but her dark eyes tracked down her slender collarbones to her face. “You should try to. You need your strength.” 

“I know.” 

“Set a reminder, even. To eat something.” The thin line of her mouth wobbled, then she smiled. 

Heejin ate slower now, chewing on the rice as if she could extract all of its flavors with time. 

Her mother broke the silence a second time, sipping on her wine and setting it down. “I talked to your sister today.” 

“Really?” Heejin and Gaeun weren’t close, separated by age as they were by personality. She’d just started back at BBC for her final year, but Heejin could only guess how she would spend it. 

“Mhm-hm. You know she had a rough time last year. I worry. She’s settling back in well, though, and you’ll never guess what class she’s taking.”

“What’s that?”

“Guitar lessons.” Her mother folded her hands, eyes sparkling above her smile. “A little birdie told me you might’ve inspired her.” 

She was right, Heejin couldn’t have guessed that. Gaeun didn’t have an artistic bone in her body. But to think she’d inspired her--her heart thudded oddly. “Oh?” 

“Listened to you playing it all summer, why else would she?” Her mother laughed. “You have to admit it’s a good idea, putting all that romantic angst into something productive. Making art. As wise a response as any.” 

Angst was an understatement. Gaeun had gone through some of her lowest times the previous semester, facing a breakup from her first and only college boyfriend and slipping grades. Heejin didn’t envy her, and mostly she didn’t know what to say. It was as if their gap had only widened after Gaeun went to college. 

“That’s cool,” Heejin said. She twirled the tines of her fork on her empty bowl. An unemotional response, maybe, but it was. When was the last time she’d thought that about her sister? That she’d done something to be admired? 

“Think you’ll do that when you go to college?” 

Her eyes flicked up to her mother’s. “Take guitar? I dunno. Probably not. I mean, I’ve already taught myself.”

“Doesn’t have to be Guitar 101,” her mother pointed out. “There’s advanced classes, music theory, composition. Other instruments. You’ve got a talent, there’s something to be said for pursuing that.” 

As a career? Heejin couldn’t imagine it. Spending time on something like that when she could be advancing her academic life in other ways seemed unwise. But what did she know. Maybe there were hidden benefits. 

“Maybe,” she conceded, and that was all she had for tonight. 

Belly full of warm rice and stew, Heejin returned to her bedroom. Her phone laid idle on her bed, and immediately, she remembered. 

She grabbed it, blood already rising in her face, and hit the home button. No notifications. 

Staring at the fading screen, she slowly began to feel foolish. Of course Hyunjin wouldn’t want to message her, having spent the entire Saturday out on the soccer field working up a sweat. She’d be exhausted, and probably busy talking with her new camp friends at that. 

Later, as she took a shower with her favorite R&B playlist burbling from the tinny speakers of her phone outside the curtains, the music cut off momentarily with the chime of a notification. Heejin’s heart leapt. She pulled the curtains aside and peered at the screen, trying not to drip on its surface. 

**Snapchat  
** New story from aeongie_00 

Her heart sank just as quickly. But at least Hyunjin was online. She dried her hands on a towel, water still running, and picked up the phone, opening the notification. She had push notifications for all of Hyunjin’s social media, and she was pretty sure Hyunjin had them for hers too. Or, she did the last time Heejin had checked. 

It was a selfie taken in what Heejin could only assume was her new dorm, captioned “roomates 🤙”. Naturally, Hyunjin wasn’t the only one in it. A purple-haired girl stood pressed next to her, lips pouting in a classic duck face and one eye winking. She was pretty, big eyed and round faced. No one Heejin had seen before. Hyunjin mirrored the girls’ pose, one long arm stretching to hold the phone. 

Heejin ignored the weird feeling in her stomach and opened up the reply function, their direct messages to each other popping up above. 

**heekie1019  
** New friend? 

After hitting send, she waited; but no typing bubble immediately appeared in response. Heejin set down her phone and returned to the shower, rinsing the suds out of her hair. Until another notification sounded, and she rushed to receive it. 

Hyunjin had sent her a series of winking emojis, and was typing in a blinking bubble below. Heejin let out a breath, lips curling in a smile. 

**aeongie_00  
** her name’s choerry ^_^ she’s my roommate 

**heekie1019  
** You mean cherry?

 **aeongie_00  
** nope, that’s really how it’s spelled. she typed it in for me.

 **heekie1019  
** What kind of name is that?? 

**aeongie_00  
** idk, she says she has kind of hippie parents

Heejin snorted, but still couldn’t shake the feeling the selfie had given her. She searched for something to say, and settled on a banality.

 **heekie1019  
** Well, i hope you’re having fun... 

**aeongie_00**   
mmhm it’s great! i can take as much bread as i want from the cafeteria 😻

kind of in a bread coma now lolll

 **heekie1019  
** Be careful or they’ll have to roll you out onto the fields

 **aeongie_00  
** lolol i will. choerry will keep me in check, i kinda got into an eating contest with this girl tonight though

Heejin laughed outright at the image. Of course Hyunjin would jump at such an opportunity, never one to bow down in the face of competition or food. In the wake of the laugh, though, she felt a tiny ache that she was missing out on another piece of Hyunjin’s life. She was acutely aware that summer was an oasis, that once school started they’d have more time apart and as they graduated and got jobs, went to college, moved away they’d share fewer and fewer of these pieces until their childhood friendship was a distant memory. The idea choked her, took her out of the moment with this ridiculous anticipatory sadness for reasons she couldn’t understand. It was stupid. She shook her shower-soaked head. They had more than enough time together, she had no right to be greedy. And there was no point in mourning the future before it happened. 

She looked down, and saw that Hyunjin had sent another message.

 **aeongie_00  
** oh and btw me n choerry already knew each other!! 

she’s from bramford high, our teams faced off @ the regional semifinals and we bumped into each other @ an ice cream place after the game. crazy coincidence, right?

That was crazy. Heejin went to a lot of Hyunjin’s games, cheering as embarrassingly loud as she could and even bringing signs emblazoned with pro-Hyunjin and pro-Lionesses--varsity women’s soccer, pride of Liliworth High--slogans. But she couldn’t make it to all of them, especially the away games and especially the ones late in the fall semester, when she was busy with midterms, projects, and extracurriculars. That must’ve been a game she couldn’t attend.

 **heekie1019  
** Wow, what are the odds?

 **aeongie_00  
** ikr? I’m not surprised she’s @ camp tho, she’s an amazing keeper 

As much as Heejin wasn’t fluent in sports lingo--at all--she knew Hyunjin was a defense player, and that meant she didn’t often confront goalies herself. Instead, they worked together. 

**aeongie_00  
** we’d make a killer team tbh *_*

Heejin didn’t doubt it. She wanted to message something about wanting to see Hyunjin play with her campers, players of the same high caliber, but it sounded strange no matter how she wrote it in her head. 

Luckily, Hyunjin was content to carry the conversation

 **aeongie_00  
** btw, wyd? 

**heekie1019  
** Showering, actually

It was only when she typed this that Heejin finally realized the water had long since run cold, the shampoo and soap washed off of her body and skin growing pruny. A shiver ran down spine in the cooling bathroom. She probably could’ve dried herself off if she wasn’t so distracted. 

**aeongie_00  
** lmaoo, really?

ew, so u were naked this whole time 🤢 ;) 

The flush came out of nowhere. She had to cover her face even though no one was watching. 

**heekie1019  
** Don’t worry, i was wearing a swimsuit.

 **aeongie_00  
** lmfao, then nvm! 

They’d seen each other naked plenty of times. But not in recent years. Once they were older, it was different. New boundaries were erected. They knew where each others’ moles were, what colors and patterns of underwear they had, would still curl up together in nothing more than pajamas and go braless when it was just the two of them hanging out in their rooms. The idea that there were some lines they didn’t cross anymore was unspoken. She hadn’t even considered it until now, until Hyunjin sent that message. 

Thankfully, Hyunjin’s new message broke off that train of thought. She sighed, turned off the water and shook the remaining water droplets out of her hair as if she could shake away the discomforting thoughts. 

**aeongie_00  
** okay gotta go now, byebye! x

 **heekie1019  
** This late?

 **aeongie_00  
** yea there’s optional night games going on and like hell i’m gonna miss em. love playing under stadium lights!

Heejin thought back to Hyunjin’s previous complaints of a bread coma, and laughed under her breath. She started wrapping herself in her towel as she typed out a reply. 

**heekie1019  
** What about your bread coma? 

**aeongie_00  
** lol dw, i’ll be fine!! sweet dreams if we don’t talk again :3 

Heejin stared at the message for a moment, smiling softly. Then she switched off her phone. 

She didn’t know what had gotten into her today, and she didn’t like it. Maybe if it was something knowable, she could conquer it, leave these strange feelings as a memory. This kind of mystery wasn’t her thing. 

The cold air of the bathroom chilled her to the bone, and she clutched the towel tighter, leaving to get changed. 

Heejin’s sweatshirt didn’t turn up in the week that followed, nor did it when Hyunjin returned home from camp, freshly tanned and somehow leaner, more muscular than Heejin remembered. But that was probably a trick of her memory. A week couldn’t do that much for one’s physique, even if they were playing soccer eight hours a day between pigging out on cafeteria food and bread. Hyunjin told her all about it sporadically, some days more than others, but Heejin’s weird feelings didn’t settle--that had to be why she looked different when she stepped out of the Kim family’s van onto their driveway for the first time in a week. 

Heejin had texted to ask about her sweatshirt, realizing she’d forgotten that first night, after Hyunjin recounted enthusiastically the late-night cookie delivery service offered by a business next to the university. It sounded wonderful, Heejin had to admit, and right up Hyunjin’s ally. 

**Jeon Heejin  
** Btw have you seen my sweatshirt? The bbc one? It went missing the day you left

Hyunjin took a minute to answer, but her reply was expected. Heejin instantly felt bad, hating to even imply the accusation. 

**Kim Hyunjin  
** i havent sorry!

have u checked in my room?

Heejin hadn’t thought of that. She had been wearing it in the Kim’s house the day Hyunjin left, but she swore she returned to her house wearing it. Her memory wasn’t without a fault, though. 

**Jeon Heejin  
** I haven’t… you wouldn’t mind? 

**Kim Hyunjin  
** go for it!

It was late, then, but the next day she went over to the Kims’ house and knocked on their door, welcomed warmly by Hyunjin’s father without question. He worked from home as a writer and freelancer, Heejin knew, and was around more often than his wife, a known professional go-getter and possible reason for Hyunjin’s competitiveness. 

She politely declined Mr. Kim’s offers for refreshments or a snack and headed straight to Hyunjin’s bedroom tucked in the corner of the house, right across from Heejin’s bedroom next door. From her bed, Hyunjin had a view of the decorations on Heejin’s windowsill, a silhouette of her movements if her light was on and the blinds were down. Often, when they were kids, Hyunjin would climb out of her window and through Heejin’s so they could hang out past their bedtimes; if they couldn’t, they passed notes by writing messages on whiteboards or scrap paper and lighting them up with flashlights. Nowadays they didn’t have such stringent curfews, but Heejin somehow missed it anyway. 

Hyunjin’s room was messy like her own, a pile of laundry balanced on top of her basket, bed unmade and walls littered with posters of professional sportswomen and newspaper clippings from her best showings in local tournaments. She had her own trophies crowding her shelves, soccer, basketball, and badminton alike, beat-up textbooks and notebooks that looked like they’d been through a tornado stacked on her desk. 

Heejin crept in, feeling like an intruder, and flicked on the overhead light. Her eyes immediately went to the sandbag cushion in the corner, where she’d spent so many hours sitting and chatting with Hyunjin--there was a grey sweater flung across it. But she knew it wasn’t hers even before she picked it up. 

She cast around the room as she set the sweater back down. The shadows in the corners seemed larger, the light less friendly with Hyunjin here. She sat down on the bed, the messy purple-yellow-striped covers, and drummed her fingers. Somehow, her eyes fell on the pictures pinned above the headboard. Lacking a cork board, the polaroids and old printed photos were laid flat on the pale yellow wallpaper with scotch tape. They were familiar photos, mostly Heejin and Hyunjin, each evoking a memory. One selfie with Hyunjin’s polaroid camera, taken on their eighth grade trip to Washington D.C. Another from the beach from a summer break of two years ago. A solo picture of Heejin sitting across a booth, staring down at her giant ice cream sundae and smiling as her lips curled around a spoon. Heejin hadn’t known Hyunjin was taking it, and Heejin protested; but Hyunjin hung it up anyway, laughing the whole time. 

Not all of the photos were of the two of them. Some were family photos, others group photos from her various sports teams. There were selfies with different friends. Friends Heejin didn’t know as well, who had different classes and different clubs. 

Heejin’s stomach curled. She didn’t know if it was hunger, or something else. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she needed to set reminders to eat. 

She got up, did another sweep of the room without success and finished with a peek into Hyunjin’s closet. She thumbed through sports uniforms, swimsuits, formalwear and dresses she hadn’t worn in years, the smell of dust billowing out of the dark. Some sweatshirts, but none of them grey. 

This was a silly idea, she’d thought, leaving the house with a polite goodbye to Mr. Kim. She knew she hadn’t left the sweater in Hyunjin’s room. It would turn up eventually. 

Heejin helped Hyunjin unload her suitcase and bags of soccer supplies without any grand reunion hugs or even much conversation. Hyunjin didn’t look in the mood to talk, anyway. Her eyes were downcast, and she didn’t immediately run to hug Heejin once she got out. Heejin figured she was tired and went along with it. 

They dragged the bags into the house, Heejin helping her bring them into her bedroom to unpack. Heejin swore she could still see the indent in the sheets where she’d sat, leaning back on the heels of her hands and staring at their old polaroids. But of course Hyunjin wouldn’t know. Heejin watched her set down her soccer bag and pillow with a soft sigh, staring out of the window into the mid-afternoon sky for a moment. They hadn’t turned on the light, so her profile was partially cast in shadow, cheekbones set in relief. Heejin averted her eyes--to Hyunjin’s Adidas slides and newly-bruised feet. Her own toes curled at the sight--no, she was definitely not the type for that kind of exertion. 

“Miss home a little?” Heejin ventured. 

Suddenly, Hyunjin turned. Her eyes were still downcast, even as Heejin met them with a sudden flood of concern. Then she stepped forward, and before Heejin could register Hyunjin’s arms were wrapped around her shoulders, body pressed tight against hers and chin tucked over her shoulder. Hyunjin exhaled loudly through her nose, as if in great relief. 

Heejin froze. Her entire body reacted, somehow oversensitive to every point of their contact like a live wire, and her face flushed. Why would Hyunjin wait until they were alone? The idea seemed ridiculous, but she blushed anyway. A strange giggle escaped her, and gingerly, she wrapped her hands around Hyunjin’s solid back in return. 

When Hyunjin didn’t pull away after a few long moments, words escaped her without meaning to: “Oh, you missed _me_ , huh?” 

Hyunjin made a throaty whining noise like a cat’s meow, and Heejin laughed again. 

Finally, Hyunjin loosened her grip and pulled away. She turned to the suitcase Heejin had brought in and rolled it next to her dresser, setting it down to empty later. 

“Maybe,” Hyunjin said. She had a small smile that made Heejin want to shout for joy. “None of your business.”

Their last year of school together, Heejin and Hyunjin would share one class. It couldn’t be helped. Hyunjin wasn’t taking as many AP classes, but Heejin’s schedule was crammed with them. Heejin was the academic go-getter of the two, striving to acquire as much college credit as she could with her sights set on scholarships from top universities. Hyunjin wanted a sports scholarship, and would be spending her time playing it up for soccer scouts and making sure her GPA was decent. 

After homeroom, their one class met in the science wing, where they would be taking AP Chemistry under the direction of Mrs. Barrett. It would be taught in two blocks, one for lecture and the next for lab. 

Heejin and Hyunjin nearly collided in the hallways outside and slowed down to exchange their greetings for the first time in a half hour since they both stepped off of the bus. Then the warning bells sounded, and they rushed to the safety of the classroom. 

As Heejin entered after Hyunjin, she saw there were only two seats remaining in the back row. She was surprised this sort of class would have a full house, but more disappointed that the two seats were separated by one student. Her disappointment deepened as her eyes focused and she realized who the student was: Ryujin Shin.

“Welcome, welcome,” Mrs. Barrett said from the front of the room, waving them in. “You must be…” She glanced at her clipboard. “Hyunjin and Heejin?”

“Yup,” Hyunjin said cheerily as she sailed through the aisle of chairs towards her seat. Heejin followed, sitting numbly and slinging her bag beside her as she took her seat between Ryujin and a blonde girl she didn’t know. 

The bells for the start of class rang the moment she touched her seat; and with that, Mrs. Barrett cleared her throat and began. “Welcome to AP Chemistry, ladies and gentlemen. Mostly ladies, I see. Thrilled and honored to have twenty of you here with me this year--the most I’ve ever had for this class, actually. I’m sure you’ve all looked at the syllabus I sent you via email, but just as a refresher let’s go through it…”

Heejin nodded as she spoke, but her mind found it hard to latch onto. Ryujin’s presence at her side seemed to blot out her thoughts. 

Ryujin was the newly-elected Student Council president with Heejin her right hand as vice, and the frontwoman and forward of varsity women’s soccer, probably the only one on the team on par with Hyunjin in skill. And yet, she always found time for advanced classes and extracurriculars, fighting on several academic competition teams alongside Heejin, not to mention fitting in a disgusting amount of volunteer work. As if that wasn’t enough, she was beautiful. Hot, even, Heejin had to admit. She always had boys trailing after her, even if she never reciprocated their interest and broke a hundred hearts along the way. Ryujin was perfect. 

Heejin didn’t like being the envious type. The emotion felt like a blight on her soul, but she couldn’t help it. Some people just struck her where it hurt. 

About fifteen minutes in, Mrs. Barrett had finished going over syllabus and moved onto covering the readings from summer. While one of the students was asking a question, Heejin saw from her peripheral Ryujin leaning over towards Hyunjin, a hand coming up to lightly cover her mouth. 

“Hey, Hyunjin,” Ryujin whispered. She had a low husk of a voice, even lower than Heejin’s, and it was apparent even now. “Saw you went to the SMU Camp.”

Heejin didn’t look over, but she sensed Hyunjin perking up at being addressed. “Mm-hmm,” she hummed back. “It was awesome.”

“Seemed like it,” Ryujin agreed. “Wish I could’ve gone. Would’ve if it wasn’t during my internship.” 

Wow, an internship. That was something Heejin had never tried; weren’t those just for college students? And of course she wouldn’t have heard since she didn’t follow Ryujin on any social media, despite their being on Student Council together. 

Hyunjin must have echoed Heejin’s thoughts, as she made an impressed-sounding hum. “I saw your stories about that, what was that about?”

Heejin still refused to look, but she could see Ryujin’s lips curl into a smile. Smug, probably. “Helping out in the bio labs at JYPU, basically. Really beat everything I learned from AP Bio into my--”

Heejin cleared her throat. She didn’t premeditate it, and immediately felt a flush of embarrassment rise up on her neck, but Ryujin stopped. Ryujin’s eyes darted over, then back to the front. 

“Can you keep it down?” Heejin hissed. “Teacher’s trying to talk.” 

Once the words left her, she looked up and found Mrs. Barrett herself watching with an unreadable expression. Perhaps one of amusement, Heejin didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. Other students turned to look at her. She felt like a fool. But Ryujin didn’t try to speak to Hyunjin again for the rest of the lecture. 

Her first few pages of notes filled, the bell signaling the end of first period rang. Mrs. Barrett clapped her hands and motioned for a few errant students to sit back down. “Two periods, remember? We’ve got lab coming up.”

The teacher passed out the lab manuals and the packet containing the instructions for the first lab of the semester. 

Heejin leaned back in her chair, eyes shifting towards Hyunjin past Ryujin’s midlength crop of pink-toned hair. Hyunjin was twiddling a pencil between her fingers, the notebook in front of her covered with her usual chickenscratch. Hyunjin had on a soft, fuzzy off-white sweater vest worn over a pale purple longsleeve, perfect for the sudden gust of early autumn cool that had swept over town. It suited her, the little silver stars in her ears, the way she pinned her hair back. Hyunjin looked over then, and caught Heejin’s eye. Heejin grinned, and Hyunjin returned it with a slight, dimpled smile of her own. 

The bell rang again for the next period, and Mrs. Barrett returned to the front of the room to go over the lab manual. Having been through AP Biology the previous year, Heejin was already familiar, and was about tuned out as she wrapped her explanation of all the lab safety procedures, including a demonstration of the eyewash station in the corner. Heejin shuddered to think of using it. 

“Alright, now that that’s settled, why don’t you all go ahead and chose your partners for the upcoming lab. Pairings only, we’ve got an even number this time.”

Another student’s hand shot up. “Mrs. Barrett!”

“Yes, question?”

He lowered his hand. “Will we be able to change our partners later? Or is this for the whole semester?”

Mrs. Barrett hummed, tapping a pencil against her chin. “If you had some serious issue with each other, I suppose. But I trust you’re all mature enough now to work things out. You should really stick to one partner, get to know each other’s workflow so you can focus on the task and not the person.” 

The boy looked conflicted, frowning to himself as if he’d already been trapped with an unamicable partner. Heejin smiled to herself. She wouldn’t have a problem. Hyunjin had been her partner for AP Biology, and she would stick by her side for this year’s lab too. 

She hardly had time to think it, though, as the class descended into chatters with students turning to their deskmates and getting up to meet with their friends. Heejin would do the same, and pressed her palms flat against her desk, pushing herself up to look over at Hyunjin when she saw. 

Ryujin had turned to Hyunjin, body pivoted towards her in her chair, legs sprawled casually, her fingers touched to the surface of Hyunjin’s desk. 

“You wanna be my partner?” Ryujin asked. A whiplash-like sensation crawled over her body in an instant, and she started at Hyunjin, who was looking at Ryujin seriously, like she was actually considering the proposal. 

“Wait,” she said, without enough force to be heard, but for what? Wasn’t their partnership a done deal? Hadn’t they discussed this? Or, they hadn’t, but Heejin didn’t think it was necessary. 

Hyunjin looked away, tapped her pencil against her chin. “Hmm.” Then her face brightened. She smiled at Ryujin, raising her eyebrows once. “Sure!” 

“I won’t make us spend the whole time talking about soccer, don’t worry,” Ryujin promised, and Heejin felt sick.

She sat back down, feeling the red in her face. She felt jittery, like she’d drunk too many cups of coffee on an empty stomach. And she still didn’t have a partner.

To her left, there was a small, dainty cough. 

Heejin glanced over, meeting her eyes for a moment then looking away. The blonde girl wasn’t anyone she knew, wrapped in a fluffy pink coat that looked impossibly soft, a Kirby-patterned backpack slung over her chair. But she was peering at Heejin through those big eyes, expectant. They were probably the last two left. 

“I’m Go Won,” the girl said. Heejin blinked--what was it with the unusual names lately?--and met her eyes again. Looking at her head-on, Heejin saw how pretty she was, big eyes wide-set and pale skin smooth as if she was made of porcelain. A living doll. 

“Heejin,” she said quickly, realizing the silence had gone on a bit too long. She shifted awkwardly. 

“So I guess we’re partners now?” Go Won said. Her voice was as high and delicate-sounding as her appearance, but unusual, airy and nasal in a way she hadn’t heard before. 

“Guess so,” Heejin said. She swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat. God, was she actually sick? She felt Ryujin and Hyunjin at her back so vividly as if she were staring them in the eye. It couldn’t be that big of a deal. Except that it was. This was their last year together. Their only shared class. 

She forced her thoughts to return to Go Won, and realized she truly couldn’t place her in any of her previous years at Liliworth High. 

“Are you--uh, new here, by the way?” she ventured. Go Won’s eyes widened a little bit in acknowledgement, and she nodded. 

“I moved here last week. It’s pretty new.”

“Wow, last week?” Sounded stressful. And for senior year, too. 

“Yeah. My dad’s helping open a new branch of his company here in Liliworth, so we had to move.” 

Heejin blinked at the unsolicited information. “His company?” Then she cringed; this wasn’t her filter’s day, was it? 

“Yeah, he makes engine parts for the military or something. I don’t really know. It’s pretty boring.” 

“Wow.” Heejin mulled over the information silently, and Go Won didn’t offer any more. 

“Alright,” Mrs. Barrett said once again, and the remaining chatter came to a halt. “I see you’ve all got your partners. I’ll pass this clipboard around and you can write down your names so I know who’s with who.” She handed the clipboard to one of the students in front. “Now let’s start going over the experiment, shall we?” 


	13. YuWin (NCT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Dong gives Yuta a prostate exam; fun times ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** Explicit

Yuta bounces his leg as he sits on one of the hard plastic chairs lined up in the waiting room. He was a bit early, because he’s nervous, and he’s still not used to seeing a doctor of his own will. He was a healthy kid, never had to go outside of the checkups his mom took him to, and adult shit is hard, like, in general. Maybe he still feels like a kid. 

But this is something he’s decided he needs for himself, bone-achingly embarrassing as it is. Because fucking hell, what kind of 23-year-old can’t get off? 

So there he sits, and fidgets, and avoids eye contact with the other patients who come and go--until a nurse with a clipboard in one hand calls his name, and he snaps his head up so fast his neck cracks. 

The nurse smiles at him warmly as he trots after her to one of the exam rooms. Inside, he hops up onto on the paper-covered examination table at the center of the room. 

“This is your first time here, I see?” Yuta nods. He’d been referred by the soccer team he’s now a career member of, needing a new primary care doctor after university. “Let me get some measurements first.”

The nurse takes his height, his weight, blood pressure, heart rate, and pokes around in his ear a bit. 

“Your earrings are very nice,” he remarks while doing so. 

Of course they’re nice. Yuta is a man of taste. “Thanks,” Yuta croaks.

Having done this, the nurse scribbles something on his clipboard and takes his leave, nodding at Yuta. “Just sit tight for a few minutes, Dr. Dong will be right with you.” 

The door closes with a click and a thud behind him. _Huh_ , Yuta thinks, and spends the next few minutes kicking his feet and fighting the urge to run. 

Then the door clicks open, and Yuta has approximately 0.5 seconds to control his reaction as in walks the most beautiful man he’s ever seen in his life. 

There are no words. This might be the worst thing that’s happened to him. Not only is he a 23-year-old with erectile dysfunction, the one who’s going to help him with it is a total babyface with windswept brown hair and modelesque proportions (even under the white coat; Yuta isn’t blind) and long, sexy fingers that he thinks he would be totally into if he was into that sort of thing. 

Yuta stares at them when this--Dr. Dong holds out his hand as some sort of greeting. Oh, a handshake. There’s no hiding his delayed reaction now, so he grasps Dr. Dong’s hand for a moment and shakes it limply, hoping his palm isn’t too sweaty. (He discreetly wipes it on his jeans afterwards, and finds that it is.)

“Nakamoto Yuta,” Dr. Dong says, and Yuta is floored again. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr. Dong Sicheng, but you can call me Sicheng, or doctor, or whichever combination you prefer.” 

He speaks slowly through a thick accent, voice warm and deep like Yuta could just--wrap himself up in it. Not that he wants to, but holy fuck. He realizes he’s staring at his lips then--they’re rounded and puffy, darker than his own--and clears his throat, darting his eyes up to meet the doctor’s. “Ah, yes. Nice to m-meet you too.” Yuta flashes a smile, as if that will make up for his fumbling. His ego crumbles.

Unruffled, Dr. Dong--Sicheng--whatever--pulls up a chair and starts to look over the contents of a clipboard. “Mmm. So, Yuta, what brings you here today?”

Then he peers up at Yuta, dark irises catching on the light, and Yuta thinks it wouldn’t be so bad if the ground suddenly swallowed him whole. 

“Um.” Yuta clears his throat, glances around at the white, clinically decorated walls as if they can help him. “Hah. About that.” 

Dr. Dong only stares. 

“I have, uh. Somewhat of a problem. Re--oh my god your ear.” Yuta claps a hand over his mouth, but it’s too late. 

Dr. Dong stares at him for a moment more; then, miraculously, he chuckles. 

“Ah, my special ear.” He turns his head slightly and taps the perfect 90-degree point of his right ear. Yuta feels bowled over. “Continue.”

He draws in a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly, and directs his gaze to the floor. “I have a problem. Getting off.” 

Dr. Dong furrows his brow. “As in, reaching orgasm?”

“Yes. Um. As in, I can, y’know, get _hard_ but I can’t...get there.”

“This problem, when does it arise? When you masturbate? During sex?”

“Both,” Yuta admits in a small voice. “I get...horny, and I’m into it, but I can’t. Stay hard.” He swallows. “I used to, but.” 

The doctor nods slowly. “Does this happen every time?” 

“Y-yeah.”

“When was the last time you achieved orgasm?”

“Um…” He can’t remember. It’s too painful to think about for more than a moment, so he takes the easy way out: “I don’t recall.” 

The fact that nothing in Dr. Dong’s manner suggests he is at all affected doesn’t make it easier. His cheeks burn, his hands fist in the paper underneath him; he feels hot all over, actually, like a full-body blush. 

“I see.” Dr. Dong writes something on his clipboard, continuing, “Yuta, I sense that this was difficult for you to bring up, so I want to reassure you that impotency is nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Yuta wants to die. Of course it would be obvious. “Mmm-hmm,” he agrees through a grimace.

“There are a number of reasons you could be experiencing this problem.” The doctor turns his gaze to Yuta again, expression still unreadable. “Physical, or psychological. Or both. Yuta, what do you do?” 

“Huh?” _When I masturbate?_

“For a living.

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._ “Oh--I, uh, play for the Bluewings. Soccer, y’know, big leagues. Play left wing.” 

Dr. Dong makes a noise of approval, and if Yuta’s not mistaken, flicks his eyes down Yuta’s figure for a moment. “So you’re an athlete. How’s your diet?”

“Really healthy,” Yuta says proudly. That much he can guarantee.

“Hmm. No other problems with your physical health that you are aware of?” 

“No…”

“Do you have a family history of prostate cancer or related diseases?” 

“N-not that I know of.” He’s not sure what _related diseases_ would constitute, but doesn’t ask. 

Dr. Dong hums again and sets the clipboard aside, folding his hands and leaning forward in his seat. “Yuta, if I may suggest this, I believe a physical examination would be most useful to begin helping you with this issue.”

“Yeah?” His palms are definitely sweating. “Wh-what kind?”

“To rule out any immediate physical problems. First, if you consent, I would inspect your penis, then--”

“You would--insp--” Yuta sputters. “There’s nothing wrong with my dick!” Dr. Dong blinks at him, expressionless as fucking ever. “I mean. Penis.” 

“I’m sorry, I hope this isn’t shocking. This is simply to rule out any obtrusions that you might not notice. Then a prostate exam may be in order.”

“Pros--you mean--” Yuta gapes at him like a fish, mouth opening and closing in sequence. 

He knows what a prostate is, that knobby thing behind your dick that’s supposed to feel really good when you touch it. Not that he’s tried it. Or thought about it, really--the thing is, Yuta is straight, and straight guys aren’t supposed to do butt stuff. He thinks. It was never even a question.

But maybe there is something wrong with his prostate. He can’t let this chance go. 

“Yeah,” Yuta blurts out at last, ignoring the weird churning feeling in his gut. “Yeah, that sounds good. A-okay. No problem, let’s do it.” 

“Are you sure?” Dr. Dong says, raising one manicured eyebrow. “I can show you some diagrams first, if you want.”

Yuta cringes at the thought. “Oh, no no no, it’s fine.” 

Dr. Dong’s lips curve into a smile. It’s probably meant to be reassuring, but for some reason it only makes Yuta more nervous, squeezes the vise around his chest even tighter. 

“Alright, Yuta.” The doctor stands, clasping his hands together. “If you could undress, we can begin.”

“Now?” Yuta squawks.

“When else would we do it?”

Yuta admits he has a point, and hops off the table. Dr. Dong has his back turned, busying himself with pulling on blue latex gloves and obtaining a bottle of something that Yuta suspects is lube from one of the cabinets.

Yuta swallows. Dr. Dong moves slowly, perhaps to buy Yuta time, but Yuta can’t seem to move. His hands tremble where they rest at his sides. 

Dr. Dong peeks around his shoulder, and his brows knit in concern. “Are you okay, Yuta? Do you need to use the restroom? I’m sorry, I should have asked--”

“No! I’m fine.” Dr. Dong bows his head in acknowledgment and turns back around. _This is it_ , Yuta thinks, _be an adult_ ; and with that thought in mind, he pulls off his shoes, fumbles with his belt buckle and the button of his jeans, yanks down the zipper and shoves down his jeans so they crumble at his socked feet on the floor. 

He steps out of them, toeing them aside, breath heavy like he’d just run a race. 

“May I look?” the doctor asks.

“Yeah. ‘M ready.”

Dr. Dong turns then, nods at Yuta with the same small smile, only for his eyes to flick down at Yuta’s still-clothed crotch. “Oh, but those will have to go too, unfortunately.”

_Oh_. Yuta swears his ribs are being crushed--by shame, or something else--and he looks down at his whitey-tighties with flushed cheeks, thumbing over the hem reluctantly. For some reason, his own touch makes his skin spark. Inexplicably, he feels hypersensitive, like every cell is on edge. He gulps, glances up at Dr. Dong’s once-more turned back, and pulls down his underwear as quickly as he can manage. 

The problem (one of them, anyway) is immediately made clear. There’s no hiding it. His cock is flushed, slightly wet at the tip, verging on a half-chub that shows no sign of subsiding even as his lower half is exposed to the cool air of the exam room. Yuta gasps quietly, fisting a hand in the hem of his shirt as if to pull it down over his cock and clasping the other over his mouth. 

This shouldn’t be shocking. He’s been dealing with this for months, spontaneous arousal that he can’t deal with because, well, he can’t fucking _cum_ ; but this is another level of unwarranted. 

“May I turn around now?”

Yuta eyes Dr. Dong where he’s braced on the counter as he waits, broad shoulders hunched. _He won’t judge, right?_ His lip trembles, but he pushes out an oddly high-pitched “Yes!” before he can rationalize his way out of it.

The doctor straightens and turns to face him, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “Good. This will only take a few minutes. How would you like to proceed? Standing, sitting--”

“This is fine,” Yuta says in a rush. He scoots back to brace his elbows on the examination table, resisting the urge to hide himself and keeping his eyes trained on the doctor as he approaches and places the bottle of lube on a tray beside the table, pulls the blue elastic tighter around those long, long fingers. 

Dr. Dong sidles up to him carefully, but his presence is still overwhelming. Something about his godlike beauty, combined with the immediate humiliation and terror of the situation--and yet Yuta’s arousal refuses to subside, still humming within him like an itch that can’t be scratched. He bites his lip, looks up at Dr. Dong with quivering eyes. 

“Shhh,” the doctor hums even though Yuta hasn’t said a word. “Relax. I’m going to touch your penis now. Okay, Yuta?” 

“Okay,” Yuta breathes. He wonders if he should close his eyes, but that might make it worse. 

Then Dr. Dong’s hand is upon him, and Yuta jolts at the first touch. 

It’s impossible not to. He hasn’t been touched in ages. Dr. Dong’s fingers cup his shaft, light as air, and Yuta lets out a long sigh. His eyes flutter closed. The doctor says something, then, but it floats in ear and out the other, as Yuta is absorbed in the way it feels to be touched by another. 

His eyes snap open when Dr. Dong pushes back his foreskin, gloved fingers ghosting over his head. His penis throbs, literally jumps in Dr. Dong’s hands, and Yuta squeezes his eyes shut. 

“‘M sorry,” he says in a thin voice. 

“Don’t be,” Dr. Dong murmurs. “The penis reacts to touch. Completely normal.” 

Dr. Dong’s hands cradle him for a few more moments, and then they’re gone. He opens his eyes and realizes his breath is coming out in soft pants, chest rising and falling faster than it should. He looks up at the doctor pleadingly, though he’s not sure what for. 

“Your penis is fine,” Dr. Dong says blandly. “Are you up for a prostate check? Again, it will only take a few moments.”

Yuta stares at the doctor, then at the bottle of lube. “Yeah,” he exhales, even as his fear begins to throttle him. _It’s for the best. This is like, self care, or whatever_. 

“Excellent. Yuta, if you could turn around.” Dr. Dong squirts a pump of lube into one hand and begins warming it between his fingers. _How nice of him_. Yuta gulps, and turns around on uneasy legs so he faces the table. “Bend over a bit, brace yourself on the table.” 

Yuta moves as if commanded by a puppet master, shunting his ass out and propping himself up on his forearms. He gasps when he feels Dr. Dong’s dry hand on the bare skin of his hip, and the doctor shushes him again.

“Relax, Yuta. Deep breaths.” Yuta nods numbly, inhaling and exhaling for show. His heart thuds, and sweat collects at the small of his back. “I’m going to put it in now, okay?”

“Yes! Okay,” he says. _Just do it, god_.

Yuta stiffens when Dr. Dong shuffles closer and presses his thumb into one of Yuta’s ass cheeks. Gently, like this, he pries him apart and exposes his asshole to the cool air of the exam room. To Dr. Dong’s eyes. Yuta shivers. 

Before he can collect himself, a wet finger prods at his entrance; his hands fist into the paper, teeth clenching as Dr. Dong’s index finger tests the puckered muscle. The feeling is foreign, intense--and there’s no time for him to evaluate it properly, because the gloved finger sinks into him in the next moment, just pops in to the first knuckle, and then. 

It’s immediate, electric, and irrepressible. It’s as if Yuta’s body doesn’t belong to himself. His head goes light and his body seizes, heat flooding him as the doctor strikes nerves he didn’t know he had in him; and he groans, loud. 

He’s remotely aware of his hardness as Dr. Dong slips his finger out, questioning him, “Are you in pain?”

“Doctor,” Yuta says--literally, moans--and he lets his head fall to the table’s cushioned surface. 

“Yuta,” Dr. Dong starts again, sounding wary.

“No!” Yuta manages. “‘M fine. I’m fine.” His socks slip on the tiled floor, and he forces himself upright. 

“Okay,” Dr. Dong says, completely toneless, and slips his finger back inside. 

He sinks deeper into him this time, and Yuta bites his lip to stifle another groan, teeth clenched and eyes pressed shut as his body all but shakes. _Unbelievable_. 

Inside him, Dr. Dong’s finger curls, searching, and meets its target. 

Yuta’s body lights up. If being penetrated was electric, this is the fucking sun. His vision goes white as every drop of blood in his body drains into his dick, and a wave begins to crest within him, overtaking his senses as he lets out a hoarse shout that he only belatedly muffles with his fist. 

“Ah, there we are,” Dr. Dong says. 

Yuta curses, scrambling to keep his grip on the table as his hands sweat and his vision swims. His dick throbs the more Dr. Dong prods the tiny organ with his clinical thoroughness, and he’s sure he’s never been this hard in his sad, short life. 

“Everything seems fine,” the doctor concludes, stroking his prostate one last time. 

He cums. He cums like it was ripped out of him, eyes popping open and a scream digging through his throat as he shoots over the tiles. His muscles unfreeze and his knees give out, and Dr. Dong’s finger slips out of him as he loses his balance and knocks over the little tray on wheels with its basket of paper napkins and bottle of lube, sending it skittering across the floor and banging his head against the wall in the process. He hardly feels it. 

The orgasm seems to last forever, one wave crescendoing into another; until at last, it subsides, and he finds himself curled up on the exam room floor, soaked with sweat and bare legs streaked with cum. He’s shaking. 

A shadow crosses him, and Yuta looks up. Dr. Dong hovers over him with concern knit in his brows, paper napkins in hand. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” the doctor murmurs; and if death were to come upon Yuta in that moment, he would not be opposed. 

Yuta stares at his reflection through the steamed up mirror, shoulders hunched as he braces himself on the sink. Drops of water fall from dark locks of hair, travel down the tendons of his neck and in the dip of his chest; his body cools rapidly outside the hot spray of the shower, gooseflesh raising over his bare skin. 

His cock rests calmly against his thigh, but there’s a spark in him. A hunger in his tired eyes. 

Dr. Dong referred him to a therapist with a specialty in sexual dysfunction, afterwards. The problem was not with his dick, or whatever, but with his mind.

“Do you have wet dreams?” the doctor asked, bizarrely calm as if Yuta hadn’t just--spontaneously orgasmed with the doctor’s finger inside of him. It was as if this shit was everyday.

Yuta realized he’d forgotten them, then. “I--yeah, sometimes.” He didn’t count them as part of his...problem, since waking up covered in semen every so often wasn’t a substitute for a functional relationship with his dick. “I don’t remember them. I never remember my dreams, honestly.” 

Dr. Dong nodded at that, his gaze lidded and calmly analytical. “Unfortunate. Otherwise I’d recommend you explore that, whatever your unconscious may desire.”

Yuta’s grip hardens around the sink’s edge. He hasn’t got a good night of sleep in days, not since the appointment. How could he. There’s embarrassment, and then there’s _that_. 

“I suspect there is something missing, and once you find that, your problem may very well disappear.”

That something. Hours of lying awake soul-searching, going over the scene in his mind again and again only to end up with his hands fisted in his sheets, hips rutting against the mattress. Late-night internet searches (on incognito, of course). He has a horrible (bizarre, hopeful) feeling, now, what it is.


	14. KageHina (Haikyuu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Generic fantasy AU where Kageyama is a gifted sharpshooter and Hinata is a thief with great speed and agility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** Teen

Tobio is a moon and a half into his journey when everything goes to shit.

Everything up until that point went according to plan. Because, well, of course it did. Tobio may seem simple, but he isn’t stupid; he knows how to keep his head down and his cards close to his chest when the times call for it. He kept his clothes plain and his possessions free of royal insignia. He avoided towns when he could, threw a hood over his head when he couldn’t. The trails he chose to follow into northern, backwoods Karasuno were those infrequently traveled by, as evidenced by their overgrown state. He even went on foot, knowing that a horse would draw more attention than he could risk, given his circumstances. 

And yet.

Three days to the moon’s renewal, Tobio passes through a village, some no-name town in Karasuno’s eastern hills. The pit stop goes largely without a hitch. Some staring was to be expected--he knows he has an air of danger around him, given his unsmiling, hooded appearance and conspicuous weaponry--but these townspeople are friendly enough to let him be. Which makes them naive fools, in Tobio’s opinion, but that is of no matter. 

He moves slowly in his perusal of the town’s small, but lively marketplace; lingering in stalls, turning over vegetables as he listens to the chatter around him. Markets are hotbeds of gossip, making them his best shot at learning what dangers he might encounter in the road ahead--bad weather, bandits, anything lurking in the forest that the locals might be aware of. He’s already managed to evade a heavily-armed band of robbers, a rattlesnake nest, and a bush full of tempting, but fatally poisonous berries thanks to his market day eavesdropping. The rain storms and cold nights he can’t do much to avoid; but being prepared is better than getting caught without an extra layer of fur. 

It quickly becomes apparent that he will learn no such things from this market. 

Tobio pauses at a purveyor of root vegetables, examines the purple of the turnips as the vendor speaks in hushed tones with another marketgoer. 

“...Akiyama-san? No, I haven’t heard specifics, what--”

“She says it was the _red bandit_.”

“The red--? Is that not a myth?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never known her to lie. Made away with half her jewelry! _And_ without alerting the dogs! That’s no common thief.”

“My gods. A demon, more like.”

“A demon with flaming red hair, then. That’s what she’s told the authorities.”

The root vendor hums in contemplation. “What is it they say about the red bandit? The great thief? The one who can’t be caught?”

Tobio’s eyes flicker up from a basket of yams to catch the woman’s dark expression. “Aye. I sure hope he’s moved on by now--though I do feel for Akiyama-san, she may as well give up on those ruby earrings.”

Unthinking, Tobio scowls--which finally catches the attention of the two women. He grimaces at his blunder and makes his exit from the stall. 

The entire village seems to be alight with talk of the bandit. Purchasing a loaf of bread or a bundle dried meat, he catches another anecdote, another rumor about the mysterious, borderline mythical robber. A dried herb purveyor spins a wild origin story that has Tobio rolling his eyes but the townspeople rapt with attention--by _gods_ they must be starved for gossip, if there’s truly nothing more interesting to go on about at the village’s largest weekly gathering. He could go so far as to say he pities them.

As Tobio takes his leave, though, he can’t help but wonder. Wonder if those rumors have a shred of truth. If this red bandit is really all they make him out to be.

If, should the time come, he would be able to defend himself from the great thief. 

He brushes that thought aside with a snort. Of course he would. Kageyama Tobio is the greatest hunter in all of Karasuno. He’s second to none, afraid of nothing. 

Tobio takes back to the trails by mid-afternoon.

The next two nights are cold, but not bitterly so; winter remains at a blessed distance, as Tobio planned when he set out. Yet his pace remains worryingly slow. He hadn't taken into consideration the idea that he might grow exhausted, or be physically unable to keep up the mileage between pit stops for hygiene and food and, well, rest. It's somewhat infuriating. He tries not to think about it. 

The journey itself, though, he doesn't mind. He’s heard of solo travelers driving themselves mad with loneliness amidst the pressing dark of the woods, but he can't say he dislikes it. Prefers it, actually, to the constant noise and bustle of the city. 

He did always feel best when on the hunt. 

His stomach growls as he steps over another bramble, the leather of his boots catching mid-stride. He considers dehydration--no, he stopped at a stream an hour ago. And he's be better off saving the jerky for later on, when he's desperate and unable to hunt. 

He’ll wait until he crosses this hill, he decides; then, once he's sufficiently deep into the river valley he knows lies beyond, he'll stop. And he’ll wait. 

The sun droops over the horizon just as he makes his way into the thick of the valley; he spots a clearing, opened by the fall of the now-decomposing tree that runs through the center of it. There he sets down his bags, his quiver, his bow, wipes his brow and takes a seat for the first time in hours. The strain on his muscles is palpable, but he doesn’t need many of them to hunt. He knows he’s efficient, no wasted movement. It’s part of his skill. 

Taking a long drag from his flask, Tobio sets out for stray twigs and branches he’ll use to build his fire and prepare his--whatever, probably a squirrel. He doesn’t have it in him to wait for anything more substantial. 

The crickets have long since begun chirping by the time he suits up with bow and arrows, hunting knife secure in his belt. Across the valley, the sky glows red as the last drops of sunlight drain away. A few paces into the woods and he’s shrouded in darkness. His night vision is decent, though, and he has his other senses. 

Perhaps a quarter of an hour passes before hears the telltale rustle of prey in the bushes. It’s larger than a squirrel, if his ears don’t deceive him; then, with a breath of wind, the clouds overhead shift and the faintest sliver of moonlight falls through the canopy, illuminating the burnt umber coat of a fox perched uncertainly not ten paces from Tobio’s stance. 

Tobio starts, but doesn’t hesitate as he lets his arrow fly, killing the fox almost instantly. 

He feels a slight remorse as he prepares what will be a good meal, enough to sustain him through another long day of hiking Karasuno’s hills. He’s not spotted a single fox since he started his journey--why now? Is it a sign?

His fingers brush the red of its soft coat. He wonders. 

Tobio sleeps well that night, well enough that by the time his eyes slip open, the sun’s already peeking over the eastern horizon and the songbirds are alight with, well, song--and there’s something else, a presence whispering through the grass where he lies with his knife tucked against his chest. 

His brow furrows, and he rolls over, muscles tensing. A shock runs through him. There’s a man, a boy, crouching an arm’s length away, features cast in shadow with the sun at his back--Tobio can hardly get a good look at him before he darts forward and snatches something from his bags. Tobio lunges for an ankle but he’s not fast enough, hardly a beat behind his attacker but it’s enough to leave him scrambling, hissing through his teeth and grabbing his weapons. 

The moment Tobio takes his eyes off him is near-fatal; by the time he’s left the clearing, following the northeast direction his attacker had taken, the boy seems to have disappeared--until he spots a shock of orange pass between trees. He’s further away than Tobio would’ve thought possible, but no matter. The hunter sets off after him, leaps nimbly over roots and maneuvers past trees until he’s caught sight of the orange-haired thief’s path. A narrow trail, perhaps worn by deer, just wide enough that the thief can break into a full sprint. Tobio grits his teeth and follows, feet pounding into the grass. 

It’s only then that he seems to notice his target’s pursuit--he glances back, almost playful, but doesn’t let up in the slightest. _Dammit_ , and if Tobio’s eyes don’t betray him he’s got a nice sack of apples and dried meats slung over his shoulder. He’d given up a coin too many getting his hands on those to let them slip away like some--some stone-footed _coward_. 

“ _Oi, bastard!_ ” Again, the thief looks back; and _that’s_ a mischievous face if he’s ever seen one. He bounds out of sight, fiery hair obscured by the trees that start to thicken as they trek further into the forest. Tobio curses under his breath. He picks up his pace incrementally, rounds the corner where he last saw the thief--only to find that the bastard in question is nowhere in sight. He can no longer hear footsteps, either. He must be hiding somewhere among the trees; that he’d run so far ahead of Tobio that his strides were no longer audible was, simply put, not possible.

Or was it? 

Gritting his teeth, Tobio breaks into a run in the direction that poses least physical resistance. He leaps over a log, nearly catches himself on exposed rock, keeping his eyes peeled for the thief--still, no sign of him. Sweat is already starting to gather at his brow. It’s pathetic, that’s what it is, that he’d allow the first common thief to approach him all trip to make off with his belongings so easily--or perhaps just his luck, that the first thief he encountered was a goddamn freak of nature. 

Even with these thoughts swirling in his mind, he doesn’t let up. His distraction almost causes him to run straight into a stream cutting through the woods. He stumbles to a halt, chest heaving. The ravine is fairly wide, but not deep, and Tobio is about to cross it when he looks up and meets the eyes of a certain redheaded thief, perched smugly among the branches of an oak with the sack of food in his lap. 

As if paralyzed by his own fury, Tobio watches as the thief palms an apple--one of _his_ apples--and takes a bite. The sound carries in the quiet woods, unmistakeable. 

“ _Oi_ ,” Tobio grinds out, and launches himself across the ravine. The boy seems to anticipate this, though, and slings the sack over his shoulder before leaping neatly onto a branch of a nearby tree and letting the momentum carry him down to the forest floor. 

Tobio scrambles up the side of the ravine, too slow, his boots catching on mud. He can’t let the boy vanish from sight again. His stomach growls, urging him on. 

Yet his frustration only mounts with pursuit, and Tobio soon finds himself reaching for his bow. A cowardly move, maybe. But it can’t be helped. 

“Watch your step, bastard!” he shouts, levelling an arrow at the small, bounding form ahead of him. _Look back_ , he urges silently: _look back, just once, and surrender_. 

The thief glances over his shoulder once more--and there, his eyes widen as they land on the arrow aimed his way. But instead of cowering and handing over his ill-gotten goods, the thief, that _bastard_ , dodges out of sight, slipping behind a patch of thick shrubbery before breaking into a bizarre zigzag sprint through the woods.

Tobio knows better than to let this go on longer than it has to, with his remaining supplies still nestled in a clearing somewhere at his back. He scowls, shouts out one last warning before he lets an arrow fly: “Surrender!” 

“ _You_ surrender!” comes the reply, that is _it_. 

Narrowing his eyes, relaxing his muscles into a well-practiced stance, Tobio aims for the thief’s left ankle--non-fatal, but enough to incapacitate. Tobio’s vision is unusually sharp. His aim is perfect. He’s Karasuno’s greatest hunter, perhaps the best it has ever seen. 

The arrow meets air, and the thief darts out of sight once again. 

Tobio doesn’t miss. His arrow is faster than sound itself, nevermind some thief with physical abilities more animal than human. He couldn’t have dodged the arrow mid-flight. The boy must have predicted his trajectory, somehow, and stepped aside moments before Tobio let the arrow fly. 

The knowledge settles over Tobio like a chill. 

_No common thief_ , the woman says in his head. 

The rational part of Tobio’s brain tells him to let it go, that he really ought to save his energy for the day’s travels and not some wild goose-chase for what is essentially a sack of replaceable food. 

As it happens, Tobio doesn’t often listen to that part. As it is nine times out of ten, his pride wins out, pulling him back into the chase with renewed fervor and jaw-grinding fury. 

Tobio retrieves the fallen arrow and follows the red-haired demon down a stretch of sloping forest, until they approach the river cutting through the center of the valley. 

It’s the thief’s first mistake. The forest is thinner, here, songbirds replaced by the sound of rushing water; and more importantly, Tobio has an excellent view of the boy as he darts up to the riverbank, glances behind him one last time, and makes an impressive jump onto an exposed rock in the center of the river. 

His arrow flies. He misses the thief entirely, but pierces the sack as it sways from his small frame. The impact, or perhaps the surprise of being hit, brings the thief off balance on the slippery rock, and Tobio can only watch as he flails, then tips entirely into the rushing water below. 

_Oh_ , he thinks. _So much for that food_. 

The boy fights the current for a bit, still flailing, then surfaces to shake out his hair like a wet dog. Tobio watches, caught between satisfaction at having caught the thief and disappointment at the chase’s soggy end--then, growing irritation as he watches the boy attempt (somewhat futilely) to paddle across the river, away from Tobio.

 _Oh hell no_ , Tobio thinks, and runs down to the riverbank. 

Hunting knife unsheathed, he plunges into the knee-deep shallows and grabs the thief by the back of his waterlogged shirt, yanking him out of the water. The thief gasps in shock at being pulled upright, then stumbles back, landing on his ass as Tobio grits his teeth and pulls him up the muddy banks of the river. He coughs, makes to stand up on still-shaky legs--but this time, Tobio is faster. 

The thief makes a sharp noise of surprise when Tobio’s boot lands on his hips, one hand pulling him up by the collar and the other pressing a blade against his throat. There’s a threat perched on the tip of Tobio’s tongue, but it evaporates, startled out of existence, as he meets the thief’s unnerving gaze. 

He’s...small, definitely smaller than he appeared from a distance; his hair, water-dark but still bright and unruly, is--freakish; he would be fair if it weren’t for the cherry flush staining his cheeks and the dozens of small (some not-so-small) scars littered across his skin. One slices his right eyebrow, another skirts dangerously close to the corner of his eye. Tobio knows his own body sports similar scars, the product of hunting trips gone wrong and long hours spent training with sharp objects, though perhaps they are not so abundant. 

Brown eyes shine with defiance as the boy scowls up at Tobio, hands fisted in the dirt below him. Tobio wants his food back, yes, but now there is curiosity and maybe something else burning his gut, and he asks: “How’d you do it?”

His voice is flatter, less threatening than he would’ve liked, but it can’t be helped. 

Defiance turns to bewilderment, and a surprised furrow forms in his brow as the boy manages, “What?”

“You know what.”

“Can’t say,” the boy says, voice sliding into something like amusement. “Are you actually slow, or are you just sluggish in the mornings?”

Tobio presses the knife into the pale skin of his throat until blood wells to the surface. “I’ll kill you.”

“Over a bag of fruit? You must be pretty desperate, ha.”

“For fuck’s--it’s not just fruit. And--” 

“Eh? Did you leave your manhood in there, too?”

“Shut up!”

Even if the thief hadn’t listened, the hand Tobio clamps over his mouth does the trick, leaving Tobio to stare at brown eyes crinkling with amusement while his heart races in his throat, overwhelmed with lingering adrenaline and rage and a fresh, humiliating rush of embarrassment. His face is probably bright red. 

Then the boy’s hands wrap around his wrist and wrench the hand away with surprising strength, leaving his mouth free to taunt, “Got anything else to say, crapshot? I was thinking you’d wanna fight this out like men, guess I got my hopes up--” 

“Crapshot,” Tobio echoes. And that’s fucking it. “You wanna say that again?”

“Crapshot,” the orange-haired bastard sing-songs. 

In one practiced move, Tobio flips the thief over, no doubt giving him a mouthful of dirt as he’s pressed into the ground belly-first, a knee on his lower back a forearm at the base of his neck. The boy might have decent body strength for his size, but he’s unavoidably small--something Tobio is in every way _not_. 

The boy sputters out a protest through coughs. “You fucking asked for it,” Tobio tells him casually as he retrieves the stolen sack even as the boy struggles under his hold. On closer examination, he sees that while the fabric is damp, its contents may be more salvageable than he thought. He finds his pulse calming, perhaps thanks to him so clearly having the upper hand. Still, the curiosity--and faint sense of humiliation--remain. “I’m not gonna fight you. Dumbass.” 

“Oh yeah?” the boy spits into the dirt. “Didn’t you wanna know all my thieving secrets?”

Tobio scowls. “Maybe. Then you insulted me.”

“What if I tell you?” he goes on. “I can help you, you know. I know these forests better than you do, and you could really fucking use some protection. If I were three men instead of one you would’ve been gutted.” 

“The hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying I know you’re not gonna kill me, but if you don’t wanna fight me and you don’t want my help, then you might as well let me go.”

“Who says I won’t kill you?”

“I do,” he says, and _dammit_ if that isn’t a smirk. “You would’ve done it already, stupid.” 

_Stupid_. But he’s right. 

Briefly, Tobio considers rifling through the thief’s possessions (eyes falling with interest on the small coin purse attached to the thief’s hip), but abandons that thought with a prick of shame. He doesn’t need to steal to get by. 


	15. KageHina (Haikyuu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergent college AU Kageyama jerks off with Hinata's jersey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** Explicit

It’s Hinata’s fault, really, for leaving his laundry all over the goddamn floor. 

Kageyama stumbles into their shared dorm room alone, tossing his duffel aside and fighting the urge to just throw himself on his bed, sweaty clothes and all. Practice was grueling, going even longer than usual, and Hinata _still_ wanted to get some more spike practice in afterwards. Not that he’d ever admit to his exhaustion, least of all to Hinata. 

Who is, he might mention, currently ‘hanging out’ with Kozume, whatever that means. It’s not something he has a lot of experience with, being...well, Kageyama; but between the texting and skyping and who knows what else, even Kageyama can figure that they’re pretty close. How close, he has no idea. 

Then again, the way Hinata looked at him earlier, after he bitterly grumbled out something like _have fun on your date_ , might be some indication. He was surprised, maybe, but didn’t deny it. 

Kageyama sighs. So much fucking stress over nothing. He should’ve known university would be like this if he agreed to room with Hinata. 

He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the chair beside his sparsely-decorated desk (in stark contrast to Hinata’s, being littered with crumpled-up papers, old takeout boxes, and the like)--only to look down and find a shirt lying in a heap at his feet. 

_Hinata’s_ , his mind supplies. His jersey, dark blue with a familiar number ten peeking through the folds. 

He picks it up. It’s on his half of the room, he rationalizes, even as he runs his fingers over the slippery fabric; there’s nothing wrong with removing stray items from what is really his own space, asserting his boundaries and all that--

He brings it up to his nose and _inhales_. 

It’s clean. Freshly washed, probably, even if it was just sitting on the floor (god knows why). More importantly, it smells like Hinata. That’s his brand of detergent, traces of his unique scent--musky, sour, warm like sunshine on your fucking face--clinging to the fabric. 

His dick twitches in his sweats. 

Okay, so maybe he’s been half hard since practice. Happens to the best of them. It’s a purely physical reaction, nothing he usually indulges.

But Hinata’s gone, a couple hours at least, and Kageyama is tired. So tired. Made weak by his fatigue, he searches and can’t find it in himself to resist taking what he wants, just this once. 

Kageyama closes his eyes this time, breathing in and letting a fantasy burst across his eyelids. He doesn’t need much. Just Hinata. Wearing the jersey. _Only_ the jersey--but wait, he likes those knee pads he wears, the ones Bokuto gifted to him. Those are sexy. Fit the thick muscles of his thighs like a glove. _Fuck_ , he doesn’t know. He thinks about Hinata bending over, sweat streaming down his face and black fabric stretching over his back--he has a nice fucking back, those workout regimens Kageyama bullied him into doing back at Karasuno having served him well. Kageyama would know, with all the covert staring he does in the locker room (and their dorm, if he's being honest). 

He wants to fold himself over Hinata, wrap his arms around him and press his nose to that pale nape. Pin him to the wall and just inhale. God, he _wants_. 

Through the rush of Hinata’s scent--heightened, somehow, by his arousal--and the images flying through his mind, he lets a hand wander between his legs and cups himself through his pants. Notes with mild surprise the state of his erection. He’s hard just thinking about it, not even touching himself. 

There’s shame burning on his cheeks as he sinks to the floor, thunking his head against the bedpost as he delves under the waistband of his sweats. His breath comes harsher now, and he wonders, distantly, if Hinata will smell him on the jersey later. If anything, the thought only urges him on. _Let him_ , he finds himself thinking, despite all the warning bells going off in his mind. _Let him know_. 

He moans open-mouthed against the fabric at the first glance of skin on skin, feels his self-control crumbling as he starts to stroke himself under his boxers. When he gets time alone, he’s usually slower, more patient, so used to denying himself that it’s no object, really, when the delay makes gratification so much sweeter. But now, there’s impatience in the way he arches up into his own touch, bucks his hips up into his own hand like it’s not enough, never enough. He’ll never get what he truly wants, anyway. There’s no point in holding back. 

He often wonders how Hinata would touch him if he got the chance. Guy doesn’t have a patient cell in his body; he’d go hard and fast, make Kageyama come until he was completely spent, ‘til he passed out. There would be no gentleness between them. He can’t imagine it. 

Kageyama hikes a leg up, spreading his thighs for easier access as he finally digs his dick out of his sweatpants, smearing the precum already leaking steadily from from the tip. He rolls his hips up into the tight circle of his fist and _there_ \--he lets his head roll back, mouth open and brow furrowed, chest heaving openly. He fists his free hand in the fabric of the jersey, now abandoned on the floor, and clings to the threads of a fantasy like he’s not already a minute from coming. It’s standard, nothing he hasn’t thought about a hundred times before. Hinata on top of him, fucking him. Kageyama’s hands are behind his head--tied, maybe--and he’s looking up, barely managing to hold eye contact while Hinata drives into his ass with the kind of vigor he usually only reserves for volleyball, or on occasion Kageyama himself. It’s the kind of rough, balls-slapping sex Kageyama can only dream of--but now, Hinata wears a uniform. The jersey, deliciously form-fitting and midnight blue against the fire of his hair, stretches across his chest, his lower half barren save for a pair of knee pads that he digs into imaginary cotton sheets. 

It’s a stroke of brilliance. The fantasy blossoms, and suddenly Kageyama’s there, stripped naked and slick with sweat, Hinata over him and fucking him with an impatience that speaks of hours spent waiting to split him open. Like he played five sets watching him, wanting him as Kageyama always has. Like he couldn’t wait to get Kageyama around his dick, not even long enough to take off his shirt.

He’d be all red, flushed from exertion, sweat-slick and yeah, he’d reek--but to Kageyama, he’d still smell like the best friend he’s ever had, the one who’s always pulled him back from the brink and given him what he’s needed most; and he’d take that over a thousand roses.

He comes to the thought of Hinata inside him, wanting him back. 

“Shou--” he gasps; “fuck, Shouyou--”

His given name. A private indulgence. 

Kageyama’s thoughts white out as he comes, spills all over his fist with his eyes pinched shut and lip caught between his teeth. He rides the waves of pleasure exploding from the base of his spine--it’s incredible, better than he’s had in months--and groans, crumples forward and takes in the stripes of semen coating his sweats and practice t-shirt. It’s…a lot. Maybe he’s more pent up than he thinks it is. 

But his orgasms are always better when he thinks about Hinata, abandoning all pretense and propriety and letting himself just _want_. It’s something he’s learned to allow himself, despite the emptiness that always follows. He’s only human. He can only stand so much. 

And he is so, so weak, Kageyama thinks as he wipes his hand unceremoniously on his sweatpants. He’ll wipe it off with some tissues, put on a load of laundry before Hinata gets back. No one has to know. 

Tipping his head back, Kageyama finds he’s relaxed, boneless in the wake of his orgasm with a pleasant feeling radiating through his muscles. He waits for the emptiness to come rushing in, but it doesn’t. A temporary reprieve, granted by one fucking great orgasm and a previously-unexplored scent kink. 

Speaking of. Kageyama glances at the jersey, thinking he should shove it somewhere on Hinata’s side of the room and remove it from temptation’s eye--then freezes. His stomach drops. 

There’s a blob of cum on the shirt. Right smack on that dark blue, Hinata-scented fabric. 

“Uh,” Kageyama says, to no one in particular. “ _Shit_.”

The afterglow fades fairly quickly after that. Wiping your own semen off your partner-turned-best friend-turned- _maybe_ longtime crush’s uniform shirt, then running down three flights of stairs in your boxers with an armful of cum-stained clothes will do that to you.

He showers uneasily, shame burning on his cheeks as he washes the traces of his poor decision-making from is body. God, if Hinata knew. That would wipe that goddamn too-bright-for-its-own-good smile off his face, make sure he never aimed it at Kageyama ever again.

In truth, none of this is Hinata’s fault. None of this is Hinata’s fucking fault--it was Kageyama who couldn’t keep his emotions in check, couldn’t stop himself from getting overly attached and placing his heart and pride in Hinata’s too-small hands. Kageyama who agreed with Hinata’s offhand suggestion that they room together, since they were going to the same university and all (he shouldn’t have agreed, much as it would’ve hurt--should’ve ripped off the band-aid and allowed them to go their separate ways after graduation). Kageyama who continued to lust after him like some perpetually horny, lovestruck loser even after he swore to give him up and move the fuck on (he couldn’t). Not even as he holds the balance of their on and off-the-court partnership in his hands. 

He grits his teeth and turns the faucet to its coldest setting. He can’t lose Hinata. Knowing that, he has no choice but to overcome this obstacle placed in his way--this crush, infatuation, whatever it is. 

How naive he was, to have once thought that it was Hinata who needed him. 

Hours later, when the door clicks open and the hall lights spill into the darkened room, Kageyama pretends to be asleep. Guilt floods him nonetheless as Hinata quietly kicks off his shoes and sets down his bags, footsteps light. Who knew he could be so considerate. And after what Kageyama has done. 

Hinata shuffles around, humming quietly to himself-- _cute, god, he’s so cute_ \--until he pauses somewhere in the room. Kageyama opens an eye to peek, just making out his silhouette a few feet away.

“Kageyama, I know you’re awake.”

It’s barely a whisper, but Kageyama bolts upright before he can stop himself. “How’d you know?”

“Sheesh, Kageyama,” Hinata says, louder, amusement plain in his voice. “I was checking. I just knew that wouldn’t have woken you up, since you sleep like the dead. Anyway, have you seen my jersey?”

Kageyama’s heart nearly leaps into his throat. “Uh--um, check the bed?” 

“I...hmm. I can’t find it.”

“Just turn on the light, dumbass!”


	16. OiKage (Haikyuu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergent Oikawa runs into his old kouhai at the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** General

Tooru pauses at the toothpaste display, hip cocked as he scrutinizes the array of brands and flavors packed into the shop’s overcrowded shelves. 

“Iwa-chan,” he says into his phone, tone breezier than he feels (jet-lagged to hell and back, disgusting in the skin-crawling way one is after spending twenty hours between airports and planes), “we’re still on for tonight, right? I’m making _spaghetti_ , so good. Give you a taste of what I’ve been having these past four years.”

Iwaizumi grumbles something to the affirmative, and Tooru grins. 

“You’ll bring Yuuko, right? Unless you’re still embarrassed--kay, okay. Agh, I can’t wait for you to see my new apartment, it’s so...charming. But fashion.”

“I literally helped you pick it out,” Iwaizumi reminds him. 

“I know! But it’s not the same, now that I’ve graced it with my presence and my, you know, beautiful, healing energies--”

“What are you talking about.”

“Those pics were garbage. Garbage, Iwa-chan. The ones on the listing? Did not do it justice. And the view is _gorgeous_ , you can totally see the waterfront, the sunsets are going to be lovely, _orgasmic_ \--”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says. “Are you sure you don’t need some sleep before hosting a fucking dinner party, maybe make some progress on that jet lag? We can do this another night, cuz man, you sound exhausted.”

“Really.” Tooru bites his lip. He’s a little out of breath, he realizes, eyes still hovering between sweet mint and the brightly colored bottle of fruity children’s toothpaste below it. 

“Really. You just had, what, a seven hour layover?”

“Six,” Tooru corrects. “And it was last night. I slept like a baby.” Lie.

“Meaning, you snored loud enough to wake up business class and drooled on every surface within reach, past even the limits of feasible human saliva production?” 

“Of course, Iwa-chan.” He catches himself on the brink of a yawn, but swallows it back and adds, “Besides, it’s not my fault you’ve never appreciated caffeine. Being a tasteless brute, and all.”

Something shifts out of the corner of his eye, and it’s at that moment that Tooru realizes there’s another presence in the aisle--a large one, enough to block out the light filtering through the shop’s windows--which has probably been there at least since the word ‘orgasmic’ passed through Tooru’s lips. 

His momentary embarrassment is enough to distract him from Iwaizumi’s next words. “Sorry, what was that?”

He hears grumbling--of the affectionate sort, of course--then, muffled words between Iwaizumi and someone off the phone. Yuuko, probably. “Oikawa, I gotta go. You’ll be alright, though?” 

Tooru smiles. “Iwa-chan, it’s so cute when you care about me.”

“Shut up. I’ll see you tonight, okay? Call if you change your mind.”

“Kay, Iwa. Bye-bye!”

Slipping his phone into his pocket, he bites back his self-consciousness and grabs the bottle of fruity toothpaste, adds it to the bag of necessities (and a few sweets) he’s been picking up throughout the store. 

“Berry explosion?” a voice reads off from behind him. Tooru jolts, rounds on the tall (obscenely tall, really) stranger lurking behind him with burning cheeks--and finds himself staring into dark blue eyes, bluer than any he’s seen since landing back in Tokyo. 

“Whaaa,” he starts, but trails off as he takes in the stranger--who’s really an appropriate distance away, but _feels_ too close, being all of three, four centimeters taller (than Tooru, who’s used to being the tallest in the room) and broad, like an athlete--and finds his gaze drawn helplessly back to those _eyes_ , framed by sharp brows and a mop of jet-black hair, bangs swept off to the side. They’re...blue, a particular shade he spent all of junior and senior high trying to forget. 

The name slips out of him before he can think better of it. 

“Tobio-chan?”

The man’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back; and Tooru’s first, horrified thought is that the man in front of him is absolutely, without a doubt, one hundred percent Kageyama Tobio. 

His second thought is something along the lines of _oh god, this is really how our first meeting since high school is going to go._ Tooru jet-lagged and greasy, hair a disaster, having just been caught red-handed putting children’s toothpaste into his shopping bag; Kageyama looking…

Well.

He’d say _better than me_ ; but given the present state of his appearance (in a word, subpar--and that’s rare, these are _rare_ circumstances), that would probably be an understatement. 

“Oikawa-san,” Kageyama starts, apologetic, and Tooru panics. 

“Oh, this?” he says, clutching the toothpaste. “It’s, ah, for my girlfriend. Haha, so funny, right?” 

Kageyama blinks. 

“Ah, I don't know why I said that. I don't have a girlfriend.” _Even better, Tooru_. He swears he sees a smile teasing at the edge of Kageyama’s lips--a _smile_ , and _why_ is he even looking at his lips--“Um. I'm just. Surprised! I almost didn’t recognize you, what with the--” He gesticulates vaguely, searching for a non-embarrassing way to end that sentence. “Visible forehead, and all.” 

Kageyama touches a hand to his forehead, perplexed; then smiles outright, lips pulling against sharp canines for a brief moment before he bites it back. “I’m... surprised to see you as well, Oikawa-san.” 

“Hmm.” Itching to get out of this conversation before he says something truly mortifying, Tooru draws back his shoulders, glances away as if distracted. “Well. Nice chat.” 

“Oikawa-san, I…” Tooru’s eyes snap back to Kageyama. Damn him and his weirdly magnetic adult voice, all low and rumbly but with the same overtone of awkward politeness he remembers from--god, junior high. “...heard you speaking with Iwaizumi-san.”

“...yes, you--you heard correctly.”

“Oh.” _Don’t attempt to small talk with me, don’t do it_. “H-how is he?”

“Handsome as ever.” Tooru clears his throat, figures the gods have already abandoned him somewhere over the course of this encounter: “Why, do you have some special interest in his well-being? Should I call him back for you?” 

Kageyama flushes, or maybe it’s the harsh light mixed with wishful thinking that colors his cheekbones. “No, I’m. Uh. How are you, Oikawa-san?” 

_That textbook social awkwardness_ , Tooru thinks, remembering with great fondness the mannerisms of first roommate back in Italy. _So cute_. It eases him, somewhat, to know that even if he feels strange, standing here in this 100-yen boutique, Kageyama almost undoubtedly feels stranger. 

Except that Kageyama isn’t cute, not at _that_ height. 

He sniffs. “I’m well. Busy.” Which, considering his fast-approaching dinner plans, is only somewhat of a lie. 

Feeling somewhat cowed, Tooru allows himself one last once-over of his former kouhai-turned-rival. 

_ He remembers Iwa-chan. The nickname, too _ . He wouldn’t have thought Iwaizumi had made such a long-lasting impression on Kageyama--though that’s probably why they call Tooru narcissistic, thinking no one pays the same attention to others as they do to him. 


	17. KiyoYachi (Haikyuu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiyoko and Yachi run into each other five years after high school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** General

“Um, one vanilla b-bean latte, please!” 

The barista flashes her disarming smile as Hitoka silently curses herself, cheeks heating up. The same order every goddamn week, and _still_ she can’t keep herself from stuttering. 

“Of course,” the barista--Yuuko, her nametag reads--replies, ringing up the drink. “Coming right up.” She tucks a stray curl behind her ear as she hands Hitoka her change, the same amount as every week. 

At this point, the barista probably knows her order by heart. But the prospect of walking up to her and saying _the usual, please_ instead of spelling it out makes Hitoka quake. What if Yuuko didn’t remember? Café Au Lait is a busy spot, after all; it’s possible Hitoka’s perpetually-blushing face isn’t even on the barista’s radar. God, she would _die_. 

Hitoka fiddles with the hem of her sweater as she hovers by the counter. It’s that smile, she thinks, watching Yuuko work for a moment before glancing away in embarrassment. She likes to think she’s gained a lot of confidence over the years, but faced with a pretty smile she always seems to revert to her old, nervous ways, stammering and blushing like an idiot. 

At least, she hopes she’s comparatively less creepy than the middle-aged businessmen who frequent this place. 

A few minutes, and Hitoka gingerly picks up the latte Yuuko slides across the counter, thanking her with a shy smile before turning to the rest of the coffee shop. The place seems to be especially busy this afternoon, all of her regular spots taken by newspaper-reading salarymen and chatting couples. 

There, along the window--a single spot, sandwiched between a lone dark-haired woman and a man with his back turned as he converses with his neighbor. Seeing no other choice, Hitoka approaches the seat, but stops to peer at the dark-haired woman. 

“E-excuse me,” she says. The woman doesn’t seem to have heard her, still bent over an array of papers with a pencil between her teeth. She’s…seriously beautiful, Hitoka notices with a start, hair tied back in a loose bun and wire frames perched on the tip of her nose. A single mole by her mouth. Hitoka swallows, and tries again: “Do you, uh, mind if I sit here?” 

The woman glances over, then, but doesn’t quite meet her eyes or turn her head fully. “It’s fine,” she says, voice almost too low for her to catch.

Hearing this, Hitoka flushes but sets down her latte anyway and slips into the seat, bag in her lap. She admires the small heart drawn through the steamed milk for a moment, then takes a sip. It’s perfect. As always. 

With the man on her other side still engaged in conversation, Hitoka glances at the dark-haired woman out of the corner of her eye. She’s writing something, now, brows knit and lips pursed. Hitoka glances away. She doesn’t mean to stare, would hate to get caught doing so, but something about the woman draws her eye. She seems familiar, almost. 

Hitoka allows herself another peek--only this time, the woman lifts her eyes from the paper to meet Hitoka’s. They’re blue. Framed by thick lashes, her eyes are that particular stormy, oceanic shade Hitoka remembers all too well. She’s too stuck on her own shock to be embarrassed at the woman’s surprised look, or the fact that she was just caught staring. 

“Sh-- _Shimizu-senpai?_ ” 

The name tumbles out before she can stop it. The woman’s mouth falls open as Hitoka clamps a hand over her own, already berating herself for her sheer gall. But she’s not wrong, she can’t be. 

“Ah,” the woman-- _Kiyoko_ \--manages, recovering from her shock. “Yes. And you’re--Hitoka-chan--”

“I’m Yachi Hitoka!” she bursts out at the same moment. “Sorry if you don’t--I mean--I know--”

Kiyoko laughs, suddenly, and Hitoka cuts herself off. “Yes, I remember you. I didn’t recognize you for a moment, is all.”

“O-oh. You look--I mean, I also. Um. I recognized you.” If Hitoka could look in a mirror, she’d imagine her face would rather resemble a tomato. Of all the ways to greet her former senpai for the first time in--god, what has it been, five years? So embarrassing. 

Luckily, Kiyoko looks more endeared than ready to up and leave at Hitoka’s lack of composure. Though it may be out of pity, but hey--she’ll take what she can get. “It’s...funny to see you here, Yacchan. After so much time.” There’s a small smile pulling at her lips, eyes flickering away before coming back to rest on Hitoka. 

“Yeah, ha. I didn’t, um, I didn’t know you were in the area! Or that you frequent this place! Um, I mean, d-do you?” Kiyoko seems perplexed, so she elaborates: “Do you frequent this place?” 

“Yes, actually. I usually come here every week.”

“What day?” Oh god, does she sound like a stalker? 

“Depends. I, well. It’s usually the mornings. Before work, you know. Wednesdays, I guess?”

Hitoka’s eyes widen. “That’s my day! I mean, I come on Wednesdays, too! Not, um, in the morning. In the afternoon. Right now, actually.” 

She seems quietly amused, in that way Hitoka learned to read back at Karasuno. “Hah. I see. That’s…”

“Crazy, I know!” Hitoka gushes. 

“I was going to say serendipitous,” Kiyoko says, “but that also seems apt.” There’s a thoughtful look on her face as she goes on: “It’s funny, actually. I was just thinking about you last week.”

Hitoka gapes. 

“A-and the team in general. You know. Wondering where you all ended up.” 

“Yeah, that is funny…” Hitoka squirms in her seat. She can hardly bring herself to look at Kiyoko--oh, this is so awkward. _Say something, anything!_

Before she can, Kiyoko laughs again, startling her out of her thoughts. “I’d ask you if you wanted to get a coffee and catch up, but, well. Guess I don’t have to.” Kiyoko nudges her own mug and peers at Hitoka with a toothy half-smile. 

Hitoka’s heart unclenches, would’ve sighed if it could make a sound. _Oh_. So she needn’t have worried. 

“Yeah, of course,” she says, brightening. “So, um. What brings you to Tokyo?”

“Same as you, I imagine.” Kiyoko rests her cheek in her palm, turning her gaze to the window. “University, at first. Then work. It's been alright. I live here, though I wouldn't really call it a home.” Then she huffs and shakes her head, as if discarding the thought, and looks sideways back at Hitoka. “But that's irrelevant. You’re here for university, no?”

“Yep, just started my second year at Tokai.” 

“You must be quite busy, then. Decided what you're studying yet?” 

Hitoka nods. “Graphic design! It's a lot of work, but I like it.” 

“Ooh, you would be good at that. I remember your posters. Better than anything I could ever put together.”

“Shimizu-san,” Hitoka starts, feeling herself start to heat up-- _again_ \--at the praise, but Kiyoko cuts her off with a wave of her hand. 

“Please. Kiyoko is fine.” 

“Kiyoko-san,” she tries, uncertain; “Um, you were a really great manager.”

“Oh, I know I was. I wasn't fishing for compliments.” 

Hitoka has to hide her face in her hands at that. “Agh! No, sorry, I meant--you were really good, and you taught me a lot. Like, more than you probably think. And helped me find a lot more, um, c-confidence in myself.” _What is she even saying?_ “Um, I just. Thought you should know.” 

Hitoka can’t bring herself to look at her as Kiyoko doesn’t respond for a long, dreadful moment. Then she does, simply: “I’m glad.” 

Kiyoko smiles; and this time, Hitoka finds herself smiling back. 

_She’s even more beautiful than before._

The business card burns a hole through her pocket as she rinses off the carrots for the night’s dinner. She couldn’t study, earlier. It was like trying to play a broken record. 

_How is that fair?_

Replaying the afternoon’s events in her mind for the nth time, Hitoka sighs and turns off the water. Making small talk with Kiyoko over coffee was startlingly easy--like no time had passed at all and they were two high school students again, bonding over the volleyball team’s antics and their respective workloads, conversations laced with a certain gentleness Hitoka has since found impossible to replicate elsewhere.


End file.
